


Entropy

by smallpaperstars



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adrien Works At A Bakery, Adrien x Therapy, Adventure & Romance, F/M, Friendship, Hawkmoth x Insecticide, Hurt/Comfort, Kwami Swap, Marinette Dupain-Cheng Needs a Hug, Memory Loss, Older Characters, Plagg Discovers Anthony Bourdain, Slow Burn, Tikki Discovers KonMari, adrien is very self-loathing-y, at least initially, i am looking away i pretend i do not see it, i'm in pain, in spite of my best efforts this ship makes me feel things, in this house we love a good redemption arc, is that significant, lots of food!!, some found family, too many ellipses, why do i love found family so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28618239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallpaperstars/pseuds/smallpaperstars
Summary: Seven years ago, Gabriel Agreste made one last desperate attempt to get his wife back - with disastrous consequences for not only the world's greatest heroes, but the world itself. Marinette is being pursued across the globe by a dangerous hunter who will stop at nothing to capture her, but she can't even remember her own name. Adrien, on the other hand, remembers everything - including watching the love of his life die right in front of his eyes. Or so he thinks.Old threats and new revelations threaten Marinette's attempts to remember who she really is...and Adrien's attempts to forget. Eventually they cross paths again and are forced to confront a past that refuses to stay dead. But are some things better left in the past? Can two people who are so damaged ever be whole again?
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 60
Kudos: 54





	1. An Abundance of Asterisks

**This is my first-ever post on AO3.**

**I used to post on FF dot net when I was younger - like, way younger. I loved the world that opened up to me through fanfiction; it was kind of an escape for me. As the years went on and I started college, etc I kind of left it behind me. But I missed it. Recently I got a notification from my old account and it reminded me how much I love writing. I have a little while before grad school starts up again for me, so I decided to give it another go.**

**So much has changed - I've graduated a couple times, gotten married, moved states - and yet, there are some stories that never leave you. In a general sense, I'm a sucker for good hurt/comfort. Even though MLB as a show is deeply (deeply!) flawed, there's something about it that really speaks to me. I can't wait to see where this world takes me.**

**I would like to dedicate this chapter to chocolate babka, which I've been eating all day and which has provided me with a lot of emotional support. Thank you, mysterious inventors of babka. I owe you my life.**

**Please drop a comment or kudos (so weird to not call it a review!) if you like it! I crave validation almost as much as babka.**

* * *

**Chapter 1: An Abundance of Asterisks**

**(or)**

**Even Anthony Bourdain Might Have Some Reservations**

“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.” - Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

Marise (asterisk, not her real name) loved making lists.

There weren’t many luxuries one could indulge in while on the run, but making lists was hers. The first thing she did when reaching a new town – before scouting out a temporary home base, before stocking up on supplies – was find the local stationery store. She’d buy a thin stack of embellished heavyweight matte and carefully inscribe her deepest desires onto it with long strokes of a glitter gel pen. She’d list things like the types of locks she would have in her future home, or colors of scarves that would pair best with a green skirt. Sometimes when Marise (asterisk, not her real name) was feeling particularly sentimental, she might even write a grocery list. She’d list items that meant permanence: flour, butter, frozen chicken. Items that said “I’m here, and I’ll be here tomorrow, and I own a freezer”. Most of them she would never buy, but that didn’t matter. Line by line, she bricked up a new sense of belonging around herself.

Usually her lists brought her a sense of identity, but today it was quite the opposite. She blew a frustrated breath, making her pale bangs flutter around her face, and glared down at the list in front of her as if that would make it yield the answer she wanted. Then, reluctantly, she crossed out _Marise_.

“Darn it. I liked Marise,” her friend the devil mentioned conversationally. “Better than Margaret. Margaret is a grandma name.”

“I’m trying to ignore you,” she said pointedly. “WebMD said you’re a hallucination and that acknowledging you out loud only furthers my delusions.”

The soot-black, vaguely cat-shaped creature snorted, looping a cartwheel through the air. “If you ignore me, you’re gonna end up sticking with…what’s the next name on your list?” He swooped down to peer at the paper. “ _Mabel_? You’re kidding me. I’m not calling you that.”

“It’s a perfectly reasonable suggestion.”

“Only if your parents named you after a _cow_ ,” he scoffed. “I know you want to find your family, kiddo, but if they really named you Mabel maybe it’s best they’re out of your life.”

A while back, Marise (asterisk, not her real name) had started listing names. Every girl and every woman she met was carefully immortalized onto paper. One by one, she tried their names on like thrifted jeans, looking for the perfect fit. “Marise” had lasted her almost three weeks – a new record. Marise (asterisk, not her real name) sighed. She was pretty sure her name started with an M; it was less a memory and more a _knowledge_. Being Marise for several days had felt almost right, but in her heart she knew she wasn’t a Marise. She was…well, according to the black hole eating up her memories, she was nobody. No home, no family, no certainty of anything except uncertainty. Having to pack up and move every few months didn’t help.

“You’re thinking stupid thoughts again,” her devil accused, hovering in front of her face. His massive green eyes stared into hers unblinkingly. “Are you actually considering ‘Mabel’? I will literally call you anything else that starts with ‘m’.”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” she sighed in defeat. “I’ll probably stick with Marise until we skip town. We should probably leave soon anyways. We’ve been in Pucón for what now, two months? They’re bound to track us down sooner or later.”

“I doubt WebMD would approve of all this ‘we’ talk, Mariachi.”

Marise (asterisk, not her real name) rolled her eyes and began placing her writing materials into her small pack. “Plagg, you’re the only constant in my life. A constant pain, yes, but constant. I’m sorry I have trouble acknowledging that the literal _demon_ haunting me is normal. Just leave me to my coping mechanisms, and we’ll be fine.”

Plagg snorted again. “I thought dyeing your hair for the seventeenth time was your coping mechanism? Or the obsessive list making? You’re like a villain off of _Criminal Minds_ or something.”

Marise (asterisk, not her real name) assumed what she hoped was a dignified silence and rose to her feet, ignoring both Plagg and the rumbling in her stomach. _Time to scavenge_ , she thought. “C’mon then,” she said aloud. “Let’s find ourselves some Michelin stars.”

* * *

After successfully breaking into the small Chilean corner store (which, while lacking Michelin stars, boasted an impressive collection of carbohydrates), Marise (asterisk, not her real name) and Plagg headed home. “Home” was an abandoned construction site on the shores of Lake Villarrica. It was supposedly being renovated in the off-season, but no one had come by in ages. Of all the places they’d stayed, this one was probably her favorite: a volcano, no less imposing for its dormancy, pierced the skyline, and the lake waters nuzzled against the elevated poles of the site at night. Sometimes she’d stay awake well into the morning hours, watching the moonlit waves roll below her through the missing wall that faced the lakefront.

To stay much longer was just tempting fate; she accepted that. Still, it would be hard to leave Pucón. It was going on her list of “places to visit when no one is trying to plait my spinal cord to wear as a necklace”. Which hadn’t happened yet in South America, and they had been on this continent nearly seven months. She was beginning to hope that maybe they had lost their ugly friends for good.

She shook herself out of those thoughts as they drew closer to the site and began taking inventory. She had nearly everything but her bedroll, which was inside. “Plagg, have you seen my pink gel pen? I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Well,” he muttered, glancing in the backpack at their meager belongings, which were comprised of their small wad of cash, a single pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and her black folder of lists and pens, “You’d think glitter would stand out a bit in here.”

“Easy. We may not be rolling in cash, but I managed to swipe us some _cuchufli_.” She passed him the crispy wafer.

“Wow,” he mumbled through his mouthful. “Nutritious dinner and a waterfront view. This is basically Maui.”

“Get a job,” she told him firmly. “At least it’s not a cemetery, like where we stayed last time. Or the nuthouse, which is where I’ll end up if you keep nagging me about our lovely home. Who cares if it isn’t Versailles?”

“Ah, we should go back to France,” Plagg said brightly. “We could finally get some decent Camembert.”

Marise (asterisk, not her real name) shuddered. “No. Not France. Not after the last time.”

“Fine. How about Finland? We can try the _salmiakki_.”

“What in the name of all that is holy is salmon hockey?”

“ _Salmiakki_! It’s a Finnish delicacy! Traditional licorice flavored with ammonium chloride. Apparently it tastes revolting. I’ve never wanted to try something so badly in my life.”

“Yeah, you’re not exactly convincing me,” she said in amusement. “I hate licorice.”

“Fine, you heathen. Have I mentioned Finnish blood sausage? It’s a street food you normally pair with lingonberry jam, which I know sounds like something Willy Wonka concocted, but it’s actually…” Plagg jabbered on happily, and she renewed her search for the pink gel pen. She owned twenty-two, each one as near and dear to her heart as…well, she really only cared about her gel pens and Plagg. And Plagg had dug her out of numerous tight spots, so he should probably come first.

“Piss shark soup,” Plagg’s voice shook Marise (asterisk, not her real name) out of her musings.

“Excuse me?”

“Piss shark soup. Also known as _hákarl_. You can buy it at the supermarket. I saw it on Anthony Bourdain’s _No Reservations_ – he said it was the most revolting thing he’d ever tasted. This is the man that ate raw seal eyeballs and said they weren’t bad. C’mon, Mufasa, it’s a Finnish delicacy! It’s fermented using the shark’s own urea and buried for like four months…” He bobbed excitedly around her head as she stepped over the limp construction tape.

“Okay, you’ve convinced me.” Plagg’s viridescent eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes – we are definitely _not_ going to Finland.” Plagg slumped off her shoulder, falling into her open backpack.

“You have no taste,” his voice emanated mournfully. Marise (asterisk, not her real name) laughed as they ducked through the half-finished entrance.

“I can’t help that you have a gourmet palate and a hot dog budget.”

“Hot dogs,” he muttered. He emerged warily from the backpack and settled back on her shoulder. “New York’s an option. They have lots of stationery stores, and I’ve been dying to sneak into Le Bernardin.”

“Hmm. I’ll consider it. But only if we can find that gel pen,” she teased as they rounded the corner into the de facto bedroom. “I wouldn’t be even a little surprised, Plagg, if it turns out you ate – ”

The room exploded.

Marise (asterisk, not her real name) slammed violently against the wall. She struggled to breathe through the pain in her chest. Her vision swam with black spots, one of which resolved into a single black orb hovering urgently in front of her. Plagg's mouth was moving frantically, but all she could hear was a dull roar in her ears. Thick black smoke choked the room, and she coughed. She pushed herself up against the wall, gasping at the effort.

A huge, dark shape shouldered its way towards her through the thick smoke choking the room. It was a man, muscles so sleekly corded that he appeared almost obese. His thick form was squeezed into a slate-gray suit and a mask obscured his features, leaving only his eyes and mouth bare. She knew without looking that a single spike curved from his back, that his teeth were sharpened into a grin, that his eyes were solid chips of obsidian waiting to flay her to bits. She focused instead on searching for an exit, a weapon – anything to put between her and those dead eyes. Her hands scrabbled in the construction rubble behind her as she scooted away from him.

“Nothing’s going to save you now,” the man’s rasping whisper cut through the screaming in her ears. It was like listening to sandpaper sing. Her fingers wrapped around something long, thin, and cold, and without hesitation she swung the discarded rebar at him. He stepped aside smoothly and kept advancing, as implacable as the tide. He chuckled. “Did you really think that was going to work? You have no idea who you’re dealing with. You don’t even know what you _have_.”

With a flippant confidence she did not feel, she remarked, “You’re a grown man that dresses like a shark. I think that tells me everything I need to know.”

“A shark,” he murmured. “A shark that can smell blood in the water, who knows his prey is in peril.” His depthless eyes shifted to something beside her, and she realized belatedly that there was something warm and wet sticking to her scalp. “There is nothing you can do to escape. But this can all be over soon.” His voice turned wheedling, and his hands opened towards her as if soliciting a hug. “Just give me the ring and you can swim to shore, little cat.”

“Don't call me that,” she grunted, now sliding away from him against the wall. Plagg fluttered helplessly around her head. Her hand still scrabbled behind her for a weapon. “I really think your fingers are too sausage-y for a ring. You don’t have the bone structure to pull one off.”

“Bravado won’t buy you breaths; I’ll slide it off your cold corpse if I have to,” he assured her. She had reached the end of the wall and was huddled against the corner. His wide frame was now too close to afford her any sort of escape route; he was close enough for her to see the faint pink lines on both sides of his thick neck, opening and closing like stomata. “And I wasn’t talking to you, girl. Aren’t you tired of running? I’ve chased you from Montreal to Moscow, little cat. It’s the end of the line for you. Put those claws away and we can work something out.”

Finally, she realized his eyes weren’t on her head wound – they were following Plagg’s anguished movements. _Little cat_. Plagg hissed and flew at the man, who batted him away dismissively. Plagg was flung into the wall, where he slid to the floor and lay motionless. “Plagg!” she cried. But soon even Plagg’s tiny, limp form was obscured by the man’s intimidating mass. She finally looked into his eyes. They were a shark’s eyes – cold, black, depthless. Not even the growing flames were reflected in them; she felt herself sinking into the blackness as if frozen. He drew closer and closer until she smelled his fetid breath. Her hand latched onto something small, and she clutched it tightly behind her back right before his sausage fingers lifted her by the neck against the wall. Dozens of tiny black spots spawned from his eyes, swirling around her, threatening to pull her into oblivion. “

Or not,” he sighed. There was regret in the sandpaper voice, but none in his eyes. She was drowning, choking on her own throat. “I’ve been waiting for this for longer than you can imagine.”

In one swift motion, Marise (asterisk, not her real name) slid the cap off the glittery pink gel pen she held behind her back and plunged it into his neck. “Keep waiting,” she choked out.

The pen took him right between the pulsating gills. His shout of pain turned into a gurgle as glitter pink and blood red coursed in a mingled river down his sleek suit. She dropped abruptly to the floor and tried to massage the air back into her lungs. He staggered back, clawing at the pen still embedded in his neck; with a great yank, he flung it across the room. Blood trailed behind him as he stumbled to the half-wall. She watched grimly as he fell maladroitly into the lake. He seemed to regain his strength once in the water, triangle fin marking his disappearance into the night.

“Enjoy the extra gill,” she croaked. “Your brain probably needed extra oxygen anyways.” She took a deep breath and pushed herself to her feet, weaving drunkenly across the room to Plagg. Amid the ruckus of the attempted homicide, she had forgotten everything was on fire. She rescued the pen that had been her salvation, scooped up Plagg, slung her backpack over one shoulder, and swam through the flames towards the door. She emerged from the building, gasping and covered in soot, but alive. Sirens sounded in the distance, sounding closer and closer. _Not good_ , she thought, and began to walk down the street as quickly as her spinning head would let her.

Plagg stirred in her sweaty palm. She started and looked down at him. “Plagg! I thought you were _dead!_ ”

My deepest apologies, Macaroni,” said Plagg weakly, voice filled with remorse.

She shook her head firmly. “You don't need to be sorry, Plagg. There's nothing you could have done. Seriously, I thought you were a goner. I was so worried! ”

“I was biding my time,” he huffed, pulling himself up with dignity, “waiting for the proper moment. I can’t believe you picked up the pen before me, by the way.”

“It did more for me than you tonight.” But she couldn’t keep the affection out of her voice.

“ _Anyways_ ,” he glared at her, “I was actually apologizing because...the shark piss soup is actually Icelandic.” 

“Pardon?”

“ _Hákarl_. It’s not Finnish, it’s Icelandic.”

She rolled her eyes. “Glad to see you’re concerned about the important things.”

“Just in case you were still considering Finland. I didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“I was never considering Finland.”

“How about Iceland?”

“ _Plagg_.”

“Geez, show a little gratitude! It's not easy being the cruise director.”

“Gratitude? Who saved who tonight?” she teased him. But his green eyes grew hazy, and he looked troubled. She immediately regretted her comment; she knew how sensitive her little demon was that he couldn't defend her against the seemingly unending threats. “Hey, I'm sorry. That was uncalled for - I'm just a little tired. There's _nothing_ you could have done,” she reemphasized.

“Hmm.” Plagg brooded, looking doubtful.

“You weigh all of half a kilogram.”

“Yes…yes, I suppose there’s nothing,” he muttered, although the hazy look persisted in his eyes.

“So, cruise director, where's our next destination vacation?” Marise (asterisk, not her real name), asked lightly, hoping to distract him.

It worked; Plagg pretended to ponder for a moment. “Well, wherever we go, we should take a cooking class together. I bet your angry friend from earlier would make an _excellent_ …”

“Don’t say it.”

“…pissed shark soup.”

“Gross.” They trudged off towards downtown; there was a bus station there. Plagg fluttered to rest on her shoulder, lamplike eyes closing in exhaustion. “Didn’t you say the shark had to be buried for a while? Like, to ferment or whatever? That would explain the way he smelled.”

“It was rather pungent. I kind of liked it, though.”

“Of course you did. The Sensational Piss Shark – that can be his new nickname.”

“A bit long,” Plagg sniffed. “But still better than Mabel.”

She looked at him sideways. “I don’t suppose you know who he really is?”

“Nope.” There was something slightly guarded in Plagg’s tone that made her glance down, frowning. “Honestly, I have no idea who he is.”

“Because he seemed to know you, little cat,” she reminded him.

He hesitated. “I promise. I don’t know who he is.” She had never known Plagg to lie to her, but she sensed there was something more he wasn’t telling her. Still, as he lay back in her hand and closed his eyes wearily, pain creasing his black brow, she decided to hold off. They had both been through a lot tonight, and they were getting closer to town anyways – a longer discussion would have to wait. Marise (asterisk, not her real name) fingered the gory gel pen in her pocket and blew out a long breath, trying to stave off a headache. Behind them, the construction site collapsed in a burst of flame. Neither looked back. “Okay. Let me put you in the bag, and you can get some rest. I’ll scrounge up some bus tickets.”

As she retrieved their envelope of meager funds from the backpack and zipped Plagg into a side pocket, he did not even protest, which was how she knew he was truly exhausted; Plagg never missed a chance to complain. But he barely stirred as she purchased passage to Peru. _I didn’t like this place anyways. Too peaceful. Maybe New York will be good for both of us, she thought tiredly. I’ll make a list of food to eat there once we’re on the bus – Plagg can help. Maybe home is in New York._


	2. I Shouted Into The Void and It Sent Me a Cricket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thanks to everyone who has commented, left kudos, etc. I'm so grateful to you all! Thanks especially to Keyseeker, alalamorg, and Nothing Nefarious for leaving me some insight. I appreciate you all <3
> 
> This chapter was originally going to be about four times as long, but instead this one is short and sweet. I decided to break it up into 2 separate chapters - this chaptertakes place 5 years ago, and the next Adrien chapter includes a time jump. It introduces my favorite character into the story. I think Adrien is such a complex character, and I'm excited to explore that a little more deeply than is possible in a show like MLB. This chapter is meant to showcase the depression he feels, so if that's not for you, just know that the main idea here is that Adrien Is Sad.
> 
> Also...cookies from Levain. I actually don't have the words to describe them. I lived in New York for a summer (cue the Britta Perry impression) and I once walked 97 blocks in the rain to get them because the subway was down. Totally, totally worth it.

Chapter 2, Part I: I Shouted Into The Void and It Sent Me a Cricket

**“If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.” – Emily Bronte**

FIVE YEARS AGO

Adrien’s first coherent thought was that he really, _really_ needed to stop leaving broken glass on his floor if he intended to keep sleeping on it.

He could feel tiny shards digging into his shoulder but continued to lay where he was, hoping the darkness might be permanent and not just the back of his own eyelids. That his world was finally, blissfully void. But the throbbing in his head dispelled this fond fancy. _Urgh. I don’t even remember getting home last night. How much did I drink?_

He had hazy memories of that guy (what was his name? Vance?) dragging him to some godforsaken pit in Brooklyn, where they’d met up with some of his friends, but everything after that was a blur. New York City, Adrien had found, was like a rude ten-year-old: whatever you fed it, it belched it right back in your face. The more emptiness he poured into the city, the more it drowned him in desolation.

Which was why he preferred New York to nearly anywhere in the world.

Adrien cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it as sunlight sluiced through his eye into his brain. With a groan, he threw a wasted arm over his face. Why had humans evolved to be diurnal creatures? Another one of God’s little mistakes.

He heard a little squeak. Suddenly something soft and warm was butting into his arm. “Adrien! You’re alive!”

“Am I?”

“Yes! Thank heavens, I was so worried about you,” the squeaky voice cried. Adrien risked another singed sclera to glimpse a hazy scarlet orb dancing around his face like a small, independently-minded balloon. He blinked and the kwami came into sharper focus: a tiny, winged creature with a red bauble for a head, enormous purple eyes, and a worried mouth.

“Teeks,” he noted, without surprise or warmth. “I thought you’d left.” He stretched his arms above his head, muscles feeling like long-forgotten books left out for the moths to nibble at. With another groan, he clambered to his feet, brushed the broken glass off, and staggered to his poor excuse of a kitchen. Empty bottles clattered out of his path, and he winced at the sharp noise.

“I…I came back,” Tikki’s small voice rang out uncertainly. “I couldn’t bear not knowing what was happening to you.”

Adrien laughed mirthlessly, opening his fridge. He winced as the stench of ancient food assaulted him; he didn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten here. Or at all. “You lasted, like, two minutes. After that big dramatic speech you gave, I thought you might actually be gone for good.”

“I’m sorry, Adrien,” Tikki’s broken voice came from behind him. “I didn’t know what else to do – I couldn’t just watch you destroy yourself. I was hoping – well, I was hoping my leaving might be a wake-up call.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, waking up is my least favorite activity.”

Adrien felt Tikki nudge in close against his shoulder as if desperately seeking warmth. “I came back here…and I found you on the ground…you weren’t moving, and I thought – I thought –”

“You thought I’d finally kicked it?”

Adrien felt the little kwami flinch away from him; he wasn’t sure if it was because of the gallows humor, or the irritated twitch of his shoulder when Tikki touched him. “Adrien, I was _terrified_.”

“Why? At least this way you would have been free to go find another idiot willing to wear spandex.”

“You’re all I have left,” whispered Tikki. “I’m sorry I abandoned you. I won’t leave you again, I promise.” The sincerity in her voice might have been heartbreaking, Adrien mused, if it hadn’t been matched by the conviction Tikki had shown when she’d declared she was done watching him die a slow death.

Adrien snorted, closing the fridge and opening a cabinet. “Are you kidding? These past couple days, I’ve finally been able to live without Jiminy freaking Cricket warbling in my ear. It’s been _paradise_. I’ve finally felt freedom for the first time in my life.”

Another flinch, but this time when Tikki spoke, there was iron in her tone. “Freedom, huh? Sleeping on a bed of broken beer bottles feels like freedom to you?”

“No,” said Adrien, extracting a box of Cheez-its from a crooked shelf. “That’s what hearing your voice in my ear feels like – sharp and grating.”

When Tikki didn’t answer, Adrien shrugged, retreating back to his ratty tangle of mattress and blankets on the floor. He stuck a hand absentmindedly into the Cheez-its box and couldn’t hold back a startled yelp when something squirmed against his hand. The box went flying, and a small gray rodent scurried into a grimy corner. Tikki darted closer to him with a squeak not unlike the mouse’s.

“Can’t you _eat_ that or something?” Adrien groused, dumping the Cheez-its on his blankets to sort through them. He held up one that looked like it had been nibbled at and grimaced.

“I’m not a cat,” retorted Tikki. “And I’m not your vacuum. By the way, can I just say how insanely _wrong_ this entire scenario is? You’re a billionaire, and you’re living in a city practically made of food, but I could probably count all your ribs! Watching you eat a rodent’s sloppy seconds is one of the most depressing things I’ve ever seen, and I’ve lived through the end of the world several times.”

“First of all,” Adrien forced out through a mouthful of Cheez-its, “I’m not a billionaire anymore; I’m not sure if you’ve noticed our charming habitations. Second, I’m not sure you totally understand what ‘sloppy seconds’ means.”

Tikki appeared not to have heard him. “It’s not even seven in the morning. You’re French! Have some self-respect! I’m begging you, please, go get one of those monster cookies from Levain. It’ll change your life.”

But Adrien had stopped listening after the first sentence. “It’s before seven a.m.?”

Tikki zipped around his head. “Yes! And you’re already poisoning your body!”

Adrien threw up his hands, almost swatting the kwami out of her flight path. “My life goal is to _never_ get up before noon, especially on a Saturday.”

“It’s _Wednesday!_ ”

“Even worse. Good night.” And with that, Adrien brushed the stale Cheez-its off his blanket onto the floor, slid onto the threadbare mattress, and drew the covers over his head. Despite Tikki’s protests, he was snoring in minutes.

Tikki heaved a sigh that belied her tiny frame. “Oh, Adrien,” she murmured miserably. “I wish your demons could be drunk away.” With that, she got to work.

Hours later, Adrien would drag himself out of deep sleep to answer a call. He would agree to meet Vasily and his friends at some dive bar, ignoring Tikki’s desperate, broken pleas. He would stumble past the shards of broken bottles she had carefully placed in his overflowing trash, grab a beer from the fridge, and finish it halfway before disappearing into the darkness.

He would pretend not to hear Tikki whisper, “Her life should mean more to you than this.”


	3. Magical Mystery Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploads are now scheduled for Friday! :)

**“It's easy to believe in something when you win all the time...The losses are what define a man's faith.”**  
**― Brandon Sanderson, The Well of Ascension**

PRESENT DAY

It turned out that _saying_ one wanted to go to New York was much easier than actually _getting_ there. A quick Google search at an internet café in Concepción, near where their bus had stopped to refuel, revealed that New York was exactly 8,248 kilometers away. The speed their bus driver was going at, it might as well have been Mars.

“Okay, fine, I won’t commandeer the bus,” grumbled Plagg. “But we’re going slower than it took for humans to evolve lungs, which I was _there_ for, by the way. I feel like my seniority should count for something. Can you at least stop putting those smelly ginger chews in your bag?”

“Daiyu keeps giving them to me,” Marinette protested. “I can’t keep eating all of them! I might explode if I have to eat another one. I just keep stuffing them in my bag when she’s not looking.”

“Can’t you sit next to _anyone_ else? I don’t think I can listen to another word about her granddaughter’s boyfriend’s sock business and still retain my sanity.”

“Daiyu is nice,” Marinette defended. “I don’t want to offend her. That’s why I have to keep taking the ginger chews.”

“Toss them out the window,” suggested Plagg as Marinette began repacking her bag. They had ducked into the café’s bathroom so that she could change and Plagg could escape for a moment. He had taken advantage of the opportunity to flush the ginger chews down the toilet.

“I don’t want to draw attention to myself. We’re already not supposed to be on this tour.”

“Fine. Maybe I’ll toss myself out the window.”

“Be my guest. At least my backpack will stop snoring.”

Plagg huffed. “That was only one time! And I still don’t see why we couldn’t do what we always do. Lift a wallet at the bus station, palm a passport, and waltz right through security.”

“The last time you stole a passport, they almost caught you. Everyone on the bus already got approved for border travel into Bolivia, and the bus driver’s too racist to even notice I joined late. Besides, the tour bus is free, and that leaves more money for food.”

“More like more money for glitter pens,” he muttered.

Marinette’s ears pinked slightly; he knew she would rather starve than go without her lists. He briefly considered eating her stationery to prove a point (although he’d have to figure out what that point would be). “Come on, Plagg! These tour guides know their stuff. Don’t you want to experience some culture?”

Plagg glanced around the café bathroom. “If ‘culture’ is a flooding Chilean bathroom, then I think I’ll pass.”

Marinette followed his gaze to the now-gushing toilet. “Oh, _crap_.”

“Apt observation.”

“I told you not to flush those stupid ginger chews! Let’s get out of here before someone finds out.” She held open the backpack for him to settle into. He poked his head out before she could fully zip it shut and stared at her accusingly.

“I know why you don’t want to steal a passport. You feel _guilty_.”

Marinette avoided his eyes. “So what if I do?”

“You can’t afford guilt,” he told her firmly. “We’re running from a homicidal roid-monster with limited morals and unlimited funds. When you’re a minnow in a shark tank, sometimes you’ve got to grow an extra row of teeth.”

She snorted. “Nice metaphor. You put more thought into that than you did into wrecking the toilet.”

“I thought the ginger freshness would cancel out the toilet-ness,” he mumbled. He thought he saw her grin before she zipped him into darkness again.

* * *

Daiyu’s chatter resumed as soon as Marinette resumed her seat on the bus. So far, the elderly woman had not asked Marinette many personal questions. He supposed this was a good thing, given that Marinette didn’t even know her name was Marinette.

They had snuck onto the Chinese tour back in Concepción. The bus they were currently riding was one of a flotilla; Daiyu simply seemed to assume that Marinette was from a different bus. Luckily enough, Marinette’s Chinese fluency had survived her memory loss, and she appeared Chinese enough not to draw too much attention to herself.

“…just so glad that we found you, girl, or you’d still be shivering at that little bus station. Aren’t we, Treasure?” Daiyu’s husband – exclusively referred to as Treasure – had not spoken a word during the journey, and did not deviate from this pattern now. “We _did_ rather like Concepción, but it wasn’t nearly as lively as the guidebooks told us. I suppose it was the off-season. I was dead-set on rowing out on that little lake, but Treasure here wouldn’t hear of it, told me it was too wet and he’d rather we got something to eat. And, well, I couldn’t say no to that! I just love the food here, don’t you? It’s got a certain _spice_ I’ve just never encountered before, a _fire_ to stoke up these old bones.” Daiyu paused, and Marinette jumped in automatically.

“You certainly don’t look a day over forty, Auntie.”

“Oh, well, you’re a good liar. But the ginger chews certainly help. Here, have another, girl – you’re far too skinny. We must be sure to find you a proper meal once we reach Tiwanaku. If your mother saw you like this, I’m sure she would properly scold you. But as it stands, I suppose I’ll have to take care of you. You _do_ remind me so of my great-granddaughter, Hua. She’s built like a washboard. I haven’t seen her since my rotten grandson moved to Australia, but he does send me pictures. She likes to surf and she’s gotten rather tan, which I can’t say I like, but it almost suits her, and...”

Daiyu continued in this vein for a long while. Soon Plagg began to loathe Australia, surfing, and the very idea of great-grandchildren with all his heart. _That's just too much family,_ he thought, annoyed. _I haven't even thought of most of my siblings in ages._ He contented himself with digging through Marinette’s folder in search of a list to eat, as per his earlier resolution (although he was still working on a good reason to do so). His eyes had adjusted well enough that he could just make out the titles of her lists. _Names…Things To Do in Tiwanaku…Ice Cream Flavors to Try…_ All of Marinette’s hopes and dreams were in this little pile of papers. She wanted an identity so desperately that she had invented dozens of them for herself. Not for the first time, Plagg questioned whether they had done the right thing. He kept telling himself that compared to the fate of the world, Marinette’s identity crisis was hardly the priority. But he didn’t ride around in the world’s backpack – he rode in one that was so small it barely fit a stack of papers. Surely it couldn’t hurt to just tell her one thing, to give her one lifeline…

He closed the folder. As Tikki had insisted years ago, this was the only way.

 _Tikki_ , he thought with a pang. _I wonder where you are now._ He tried not to think of the red kwami too much, since there was nothing he could do about their separation. It wasn’t like they hadn’t spent time apart before. But this time, things were different. In the past, he’d always known that he would see Tikki again. Time didn’t mean much to beings who had existed before its invention. But now that he had no idea if their paths would ever cross again, time seemed to crawl. He hated to admit it, but he missed Tikki.

He tried to imagine what she would do in this situation. Probably eat the ginger chew that Marinette had just surreptitiously slipped into the backpack while Daiyu was describing her grandson’s research on Arctic shrimp. Probably listen more closely to what the old woman was saying, and probably care about it too.

Tikki was good at caring. _She probably would stopped Sharkboy with the power of love or something,_ Plagg thought. _Or maybe she would have broken by now and told Marinette everything._

_Maybe I’m doing this wrong._

_It wasn’t supposed to be me._

Stuck with only his morbid musings for company, Plagg drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Warm light filtered through Plagg’s eyelids. He stretched languorously, claws spreading out, mouth opening in a wide yawn. It felt like he was wrapped in a sunbeam. Every thought and worry had utterly left his mind; for the first time in years, he felt completely at peace.

It felt so _wrong_. His eyes snapped open.

He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. The floor glowed a soft purple, inlaid with a translucent starburst pattern. A vanilla sky stretched endlessly over his head. He was surrounded by towering piles of junk – not trash, exactly, but more what one might find in an old attic: a barrel here, a tottering bookshelf there, an ancient mirror perched precariously on a stack of boxes. With a shock, he knew where he was.

He was inside the Miracle Box.

“But how?” he muttered aloud. “The Miracle Box was destroyed. This place shouldn’t even exist.” He began darting around, looking for clues. But everything looked exactly as he remembered, down to the last rusting candlestick. He remembered stealing that from Alexandria as it burned (and despite his Holder’s accusations at the time, it had been he, Caesar, not Plagg who was to blame for that). He hung in the air, bemused. How could a place that had been incinerated to the last splinter still exist?

“ _Plagg?_ ”

He whipped around, hardly daring to believe his ears. “ _Tikki?”_

A bright red poof slammed into him, spinning him around in the air. Exultant cries echoed through the strange pavilion as Tikki held him tightly in her stubby arms. “Plagg! Is it really you?! I can’t believe it! I can’t _believe_ it!” They crashed into a bookshelf and fell to the ground, both laughing incredulously.

“I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Me too! I’ve missed you _so much!_ ” Tikki’s giant purple eyes were brimming with tears.

“Me too! So much has happened!”

Tikki darted back into the air, and he followed her, hovering. They flew circles around each other. “Tell me everything,” Tikki demanded.

“You first! Are you safe? Are you with Adrien?”

“Yes, and yes. Are you? Where’s Marinette?”

“I think I’m in her backpack – or I was, last I remember.”

Tikki gasped. “Her backpack? Does she know about you?”

Plagg tried not to look ashamed. “Yes,” he admitted.

Tikki looked horrified. “Does she remember you? Or – or me? Or anything?”

“No – I don’t think she knew me long enough before…well, you know. But I _had_ to reveal myself to her,” he protested as Tikki opened her mouth to admonish him. “She was getting into all sorts of trouble.”

She half-laughed. “That does sound like Marinette.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” he muttered.

Tikki looked wistful. “I have some idea.”

“Anyways, she knows I exist, but she thinks I’m some kind of spirit animal, or demon, or maybe a hallucination. And since the world hasn’t exploded yet, I’m guessing that’s okay. The _real_ question is, how did we get here?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out,” she answered. “I mean, usually the only reason we’re here is if we’re dormant or celebrating somebody’s birth cycle.”

“It's neither of those, though. Marinette definitely still has my Miraculous, and I’m guessing Adrien still has yours, right?” She nodded, and he continued. “Not to mention this place shouldn’t even exist anymore! We watched the Miracle Box _burn._ ”

Tikki paused in her flight, pondering. “Remember when Master Fu was studying the Miracle Box? He talked about entropy?”

“No.”

“Simultaneous creation and destruction?”

“Not ringing a bell.”

Tikki rolled her eyes, obviously trying not to smile. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Well, back when he was first given the Miracle Box and he was trying to understand how it worked, I remember he told us that entropy creates paradoxes – the existence of something that _shouldn’t_ exist. Like multiple timelines, or multiple dimensions. Something where its very nature should cancel itself out. He told us that he thought the inside of the Miracle Box was just another dimension.”

“Oh, right. He kept talking about doors,” he recalled. “I remember because his ramblings made me want to leave through one.”

Tikki ignored the last part. “Exactly! He said the Miracle Box was like a door. Just because you burn a door doesn’t mean the mansion burns down too.”

Plagg scrunched up his forehead. “So how we’d get in here without a door? That entro-thingy?”

“No idea,” Tikki sighed. “It’s just a theory. It doesn’t really matter, though – we’re both _here_.”

The sheer joy at seeing Tikki right in front of his eyes hit Plagg again. No matter how much he’d tried to push any thought of her away, it felt like part of him was always wondering about Tikki – if she was safe, if she was happy. And here she was. It defied every pessimistic expectation he had had of apocalypses and days of reckoning, of getting stabbed by a maniacal Sharkboy without her ever knowing. For once, he felt the hope she always seemed to exude so effortlessly.

“Is Adrien doing okay?” he begged her. Her face fell, and fear shot through him. “Wait – is he still, you know - ”

“He’s alive,” Tikki confirmed. “But…it might depend on how you define ‘living’.” Plagg listened as she described the darkness that had taken hold of his former Holder, trying not to show his mounting anxiety. He could barely reconcile the sunshine boy he’d known with the miserable man she was now describing. Adrien’s rejection of her had obviously been hard on Tikki; she seemed diminished somehow, more somber. Sad in a way he’d never seen her. At one point, she choked up. “I – I left him once, Plagg,” she confessed. “I was hoping it would help him realize how bad things had gotten, but it only made him worse. He hated me more than ever after that. I can’t believe I abandoned him – I’m so, so sorry.” Tears began streaming out of her amethyst eyes.

Plagg tried to comfort her, although empathizing had never been his greatest strength. “You’re trying,” he said gruffly. “Adrien knows that too, deep down.”

She sniffled. “Sometimes…sometimes I think the only reason he’s still alive is that he thinks it was Marinette’s last wish.”

“Well, technically it might have been,” Plagg admitted. “Marinette as you knew her doesn’t exist anymore. She still doesn’t remember anything, not even her name.”

“That’s a good thing, I guess. I can’t believe you haven’t given anything away yet.” Tikki nudged him and gave him a watery smile.

He tried in vain to return it, wondering if he should tell her about Sharkboy. _She looks so tired…_ “She may not remember anything, but Marinette is still Marinette,” he promised her. “Remember how you used to tell me how she’s the most neurotic scatterbrain you’ve ever worked with? Still true. She makes all these lists – dozens of them, of anything that crosses her mind. Last week, she started listing the different kinds of purrs I make. She said the sound made her feel at home.” Tikki smiled faintly.

“That sounds like Marinette.”

“And then,” Plagg continued, encouraged by Tikki’s smile, “right after she finished the list, she spilled water all over it.” He shook his head. “I’m not even sure how she managed that! I swear the cap was still on the bottle.”

Tikki giggled, fondness sparking in her eyes. “She always did have a talent for that. Clumsiest Holder I’ve ever had.”

Plagg congratulated himself on making Tikki laugh. It seemed far more effortful for her than it had before, but she seemed lighter all the same. _No use dragging her down now,_ he decided. _Sharkboy can wait_. “Anyways, you mentioned ‘the city’. Where are you and Adrien, anyway?”

“New York,” said Tikki with a shudder. “It’s muchdirtier than Paris.”

Plagg’s jaw dropped. “No way! That’s where we’re heading now!”

“You’re _joking_.”

“No! It must be fate,” he said exultantly. “Where exactly are you staying? Maybe I can come visit you when Adrien's out.”

Tikki hesitated, doubt clouding her expression. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Plagg. What if Marinette and Adrien accidentally run into each other?”

Plagg deflated slightly but perked up again almost immediately. “I can come when she’s asleep! You can get out of the apartment, we can go visit some restaurant somewhere, catch up…”

But Tikki was already shaking her head. “It’s too big a risk. Besides, I don’t want to leave Adrien alone. Things got pretty bad the last time I left. Even though he’s always talking about how much he doesn’t want me around, I think it would destroy him if I disappeared again.”

“He tells you that?” Plagg asked, outraged. He shook his head. “The Adrien I knew…”

“The Adrien you knew died the moment he thought Marinette did,” Tikki cut him off. She took a deep breath and forced the lightness back into her tone. “Sounds like New York might have to wait. Maybe you can just convince her to go somewhere else instead. Where are _you?_ ”

“Right now? I have no idea. I’ve spent three days in a backpack. But we’re headed to…” He fumbled for the name. “Titicaca?”

“ _Plagg!_ ”

“What? It’s a real place. But that's not right, I don't think. It starts with a T. Somewhere in South America.”

“Maybe stay there a while?” Tikki suggested. “Or try the Caribbean?”

He shuddered. “With all that water? No, thank you.”

“Coward.”

“I’m a _cat_ ,” he sniffed delicately. “Besides, I’ve never been a fan of tacos and tiki torches.”

“Literally _neither_ of those things come from the Caribbean,” Tikki told him exasperatedly.

But he wasn’t listening; he’d just remembered the name. “Tiki!”

“What?”

“No, not _Tikki_ – we’re going to Tiki something. Tikiwanu. Tikinaku. Something like that.”

“Wait – Tiwanaku?”

“Yes! That’s it. You know it?”

“Yes, and so do you,” she chided. “We used to live there, remember? It was one of our favorite – ”

Tikki’s voice cut off suddenly. The purple floor and sapphire sky vanished, plunging Plagg into darkness. He barely held back a yelp of shock at the jarring shift. “Tikki?” he hissed. No answer.

Fabric bunched beneath his anxiously kneading claws. Voices rose and fell in muffled exchanges above him somewhere. The smell of ginger stung his nostrils. He was back in Marinette’s backpack.

Tikki was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Keyseeker, Azzy, and all those who have kudo'ed/bookmarked this story. Y'all keep me going.
> 
> I have most of my chapters at least somewhat planned out, and this one kept taking weird left turns. Originally Daiyu was slated to have a bigger role; she might still appear in future chapters. (I did keep her name though! It means black jade, which brings Plagg to mind).
> 
> Ugh! This chapter was a beast to write. I don't know why it was so hard. Actually, yeah, I do - it has way too much exposition. Plagg and Tikki were kind of OOC, which I'm not thrilled about, but they couldn't maintain their canon levels of silliness and fit into this story. They've been through a lot, and hopefully it'll make sense why their characters have developed the way they did.
> 
> Anyways, despite my concerns over this chapter (and I worked on it for way too long) I'm at peace with how it turned out. I'm such a perfectionist that if I waited until I was completely happy with it, I'd never post anything at all, so...progress!
> 
> I'm planning to upload on Fridays. Classes start next week for me, but I'm going to try to be consistent! (Also, my school is making me pay an extra $275 fee to take classes online? Like ma'am...we're in a pandemic...this is a Wendy's...)
> 
> *end rant*


	4. Street Fights and Flashbacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains depictions of fighting, violence, and a short medical procedure.

Street Fights and Flashbacks

Or

A Delirium of Dad Bods

**“War is what happens when language fails.” – Margaret Atwood**

THREE YEARS AGO

Adrien had always loved languages. Of all the useless curriculum his father had forced on him – fencing, etiquette, calligraphy – Chinese lessons were the one hour a day he never complained about. From the moment he’d stepped outside JFK, despite the darkness that overshadowed his every thought, he still appreciated New York’s rich smorgasbord of language. The way cabbies yelled at each other, the buskers on every corner, the kids in Central Park all provided a different flavor profile. English was a language much more appetizing in nuance and cadence than his textbooks had let on. Though initially he’d spoken English like a BBC newscaster, consuming every bit of speech he’d heard had fattened him on slang and subtext. After years in this city, he felt more than competent; his French accent was all but gone.

But on Fight Night, this auto shop became a linguistic kitchen nightmare. Choice words were being slung at Adrien faster than burgers at McDonald’s, and despite being multilingual, even he didn’t understand most of them. The words exploded from sweating, vociferous fans who were crammed into every cranny of the dimly lit garage. Although the vocabulary varied by intended target, most of it was comprised of creatively arranged four-letter words. Some vocabulary was reserved for people who got in someone’s space, some for the ring girl, who was wearing what might be best described as a “child’s medium swimsuit”, and some for the ring announcer. The words that interested Adrien the most, however, were those directed at him.

 _And I thought French swearwords were inventive_ , he thought. He tried to commit them to memory – they might be useful in enraging future opponents. He needed to learn these words, burn them on his tongue if he was going to have any hope of surviving.

Of course, “survival” at this point was more of a figure of speech: there were no monsters lying in wait for him anymore, no homicidal maniacs out for his blood (unless you counted the paparazzi, but he was pretty sure he’d shaken them off his trail). Now “survival” meant working through a hangover, dodging his landlord, and making rent. Which was more difficult than he ever could have guessed as a teenager growing up in the 16th arrondissement. Turned out that unlike his father’s mansion, most New York apartments did not come equipped with a flotilla of butlers and a trust fund. Given that Adrien had just lost another job, he was now a couple months behind on rent. But, he often reasoned with himself, it wasn’t his fault that he had no marketable skills – knowing how to fold a napkin wasn’t exactly paying rich dividends. _Just another thing Father has to answer for._

His sponsor tonight, Vasily, began to shove through the hordes, a job made easier by the fact that Vasily was built like a redwood. As they moved slowly through the grimy masses, a few people shouted profanity-laced greetings at him. Vasily had been coming to Fight Night for a while, although this was Adrien’s first time; Fight Night was a well-kept secret in the world of underground fighting. You needed to know someone to get in. Judging by Vasily’s reaction when Adrien had told him he intended to challenge the top fighter, this was not how most newbies made their debut.

Adrien trailed in Vasily’s wake, collecting verbal ammunition from those who had just noticed the heavy gloves slung over his shoulder. “Interesting,” he commented. “Hey, Vaz, do you know what a ‘dad bod’ is?”

The Ukrainian man paused in his patient push through the crowd and glanced back, frowning. “ _Ni_. What is dabbod?”

“‘Dad bod’,” Adrien corrected him, pulling out his phone. “One of these Wordsworths just called me that. Hang on…Urban Dictionary says ‘The dad bod is more mudslide than mountain, more soft-serve than sorbet, more mashed potato than skinny fry’. Wait, that can’t be right.”

Vasily roared with laughter as Adrien scowled and kept scrolling, looking for a different definition. “Skinny Fry! Is like name I always call you, Frenchie Fry.” Adrien had introduced himself to Vasily as “David”. That hadn’t stuck.

“It’s just French Fry, Vaz. And don’t call me that.”

Vaz shrugged and resumed his Moses-like parting of the crowd. “Is better than ‘Crow’. You need street name that will strike fear into hearts of your enemies.”

“And you’re suggesting _French Fry_?”

Vasily grinned over at him as they finally reached the barricade that separated the crowd from the makeshift fighting ring. “Maybe not strike fear into heart. But cholesterol, yes.”

“Every wrestler’s favorite move,” muttered Adrien, leaning against the barricade. “Sudden Death by diabetes.” He sighed. “ _Dad bod._ I used to be so in shape. I rocked a leather catsuit back in the day, if you can believe that.”

Vasily patted his back sympathetically. “I am glad I never had to see. Although might have distracted Crazy Steve with laughing,” Vasily told him. When Adrien looked at him questioningly, he elaborated, “Your enemy tonight.”

“Is he here yet?” Adrien had not met the man he was fighting tonight; he didn’t really care who it was. He needed rent money, and he needed it yesterday, and the grand prize tonight was two thousand dollars. Crazy Steve could have the face of Mother Theresa and Adrien would still grind it into the dirt.

“Not yet. Crowd loves Crazy Steve, though, so we will know when.” Vasily hesitated. “You will be okay, French Fry. No one has died yet at Fight Night, and cut man will help when you are knocked out.”

“Cut man?”

Vasily nodded at a tall, lathe man hovering at the opposite side of the ring. His face was quiet and worn, unlike the contorted faces of the strident fans surrounding him. “Doctor, yes? Only he never went to doctor school.”

“That’s encouraging,” Adrien muttered. “Wait – did you say _when_ I get knocked out?”

Vasily’s reply was interrupted by a sudden swell in the crowd. A roaring cheer erupted near the front of the garage as people began scrambling to make way for something. Adrien craned his head over the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse.

“Ah,” Vasily bellowed over the noise, “Crazy Steve is here.”

Adrien finally caught a glimpse of the man he was fighting. He froze. “ _That’s_ Crazy Steve?!”

If Vasily was built like a redwood, Crazy Steve was Sequoia National Park. The man was head-and-shoulders above the crowd, looked wider than a barn door and twice as stupid. Greasy hair strung nearly to his waist, and his face was blue with spiky tattoos. When he bared his teeth in a shiny grin for the adoring crowds, Adrien noticed his teeth were filed to gold-plated points. A few groupies were stuck to him like barnacles; one even had what appeared to be a fan shirt with his face splashed across it.

The cheering of the crowd gradually resolved into a single deafening shout: “ _HONDA HURL! HONDA HURL!”_ Adrien watched, mouth hanging open, as Crazy Steve shouldered through the crowd to a far wall where half-finished motorbikes were leaning. Crazy Steve squatted, got his hands under one of them, and lifted it with an earthshattering grunt of exertion. Sweat dripped off his stringy hair, making his banded muscles gleam in the dank lights. He finally released the bike to the ground, where it clattered to pieces. The crowd roared.

“Um,” Adrien managed. “ _Vaz?_ ”

Vasily had an _I-told-you-so_ look on his face. “Your idea.”

“I’d sooner fight the Hudson River,” Adrien said incredulously. Crazy Steve was now flexing for the crowd. “I’d sooner fight a freaking subway rat.”

“Subway rat is definitely worse. I would take Crazy Steve. Besides, you told me you are martial arts master – Crazy Steve is big, but slow. He tires early.”

“So do I have a chance?”

“Do you have a choice?” Vasily countered.

Adrien glanced again at Crazy Steve, who was still showboating. “No,” he admitted. He’d lost three jobs due to drunken behavior, two for failing to show up, and yesterday’s because he had made his boss at the junkyard cry. It turned out that most of his school years had been spent fighting hellbeasts instead of studying. He figured he might as well get something out of that.

“Do not worry,” Vasily told him. The massive Ukrainian man slapped him on the back, nearly sending Adrien to the ground. “Think of the prize money. Two thousand. You will live in ugly place a little longer.”

“If I win.”

Vasily shrugged. “And if you lose…no matter. No one expects anything else. Crazy Steve is undefeated. Everyone has bet against you.”

“Everyone?”

Vasily shifted uncomfortably, and Adrien realized why he seemed so unbothered by the idea of Adrien losing the match. “Not you too, Vaz,” he groaned.

Vasily shrugged. “They offered me odds on you lasting two minutes, tops. I said no. This is my friend, I will not do this thing.”

"Really? Thank – ”

“Then they offered me odds on two and a half minutes, and I took it.” 

Adrien sighed. “Won’t there be trouble if people find out my sponsor bet against me? They’ll think we fixed this.”

Vasily laughed. “French Fry, no one who sees you thinks I am serious sponsor. They allow you because is good for crowds to believe in underdog, even for a moment. TV has taught them that anyone can win. They look at you and think you must have secret weapon because you look so small and weak. People place more bets. You are _good_ for Fight Night.”

Adrien scowled. “I’m taller than a lot of people. One-eighty centimeters isn’t _short_.”

The other man shook his head. “Here, everyone under one-eighty-five is pixie.” When Adrien kept scowling at him, he sighed. “Fine. When you lose, I will split win with you.”

“Again with the ‘when’,” muttered Adrien. He swallowed as Crazy Steve began stomping towards the barricades that formed the ring, which was large despite the relatively cramped quarters of the garage. _I’ve fought monsters bigger than him_ , he thought. True, he’d done so using superpowers, and true, one of those monsters had been a giant baby, but still. Half of fighting something bigger than yourself was evasion; the other half was luck. And it was past time for Adrien’s luck to fall in line. He straightened, grim resolve flowing through him.

“Tell the announcer my name,” he ordered Vasily, who looked slightly crestfallen. _Probably had odds on me dropping out._ He slipped his mouthguard in and tied on the black sixteen-ounce gloves. It felt comforting to have his hands covered, even if they weren’t tipped with razor-sharp claws. He pulled his baseball cap off, letting his messy hair fall around his eyes. Knowing that someone would likely be recording the fight, he’d dyed it a dark brown. Hopefully it would keep any internet stalkers from recognizing the prodigal heir to the Agreste fortune.

Vasily returned after speaking with the ring announcer and slapped Adrien on the back. “You are cleared for take-out, French Fry.”

“Take- _off,_ Vaz.”

“Is what I said. Remember: only rules are no biting, and no punching him in the _pakhu_.”

Adrien watched as Crazy Steve’s lackeys strapped on his gloves; one of them was cleaning off his mouthguard using her Crazy Steve shirt. Another draped gold chains (one of which spelled out “SKUX”, a word he filed away for Urban-Dictionarying later) over his neck almost reverently. It was like watching squires prepare a knight for battle. _It’s his Miraculous transformation,_ Adrien thought irrationally. _Maybe his kwami’s a blue whale. With filed-down gold-capped baleen._

A bell began ringing insistently. Vasily gestured towards the ring. “You’re up, French Fry!”

Adrien took a deep breath and swung over the barricade, landing just inside the ring of grimy cement. The ring announcer had already begun prowling its circumference, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. He was short, with a nervous, electric energy. “We got the main event! You know who you’re here to see!” bawled the announcer into a mic. “Y’all wanna see boxing, go to a boxing ring! Y’all wanna see wrestling, go to a wrestling ring. This right here is _street!_ We here for STREET! YOU HEAR ME? MAKE SOME NOISE!”

Voices screamed in discordant unison, and even Adrien felt himself caught up in the announcer’s rapid rhythm of speaking. “Up first is the crowd favorite, the one we all know and love – or hate, if you’re a former challenger – our three-hundred-and-forty-pound, undefeated reigning champion, CRAZY STEVE!”

The crowd lost its collective mind. The announcer shoved the mic at Crazy Steve, who had taken his place inside the ring as well. “Steve, tell the people why you go by Crazy Steve.”

Crazy Steve grabbed the mic and grinned. “Because you’d have to be _crazy_ to go up against me!”

 _That doesn’t even make sense_ , Adrien thought.

“Speaking of...” The announcer paused dramatically, letting tension fill the space. “We’ve got some fresh blood tonight. He might not look like much, but sometimes small packages can really pack a punch. Rafi’s girl knows what I’m talking about, eh?”

The crowd jeered. Despite the crude humor and rough language, Adrien sensed a cunning deliberateness about the way the announcer was building the tension. His introduction had capitalized on the viewers’ perception of Adrien as an easy target – which would diversify the betting.

“His friends call him French Fry, but don’t let that fool you – this kid’s a kung fu master, trained by the best dojos in China.” Not a single word of that was true – not only were dojos Japanese, but Adrien also didn’t have any friends. But it was another smart move, building the mythology and mysticism of an unknown challenger. “All the way from France, please welcome… _Crow!_ ”

Adrien winced, not because of the crowd’s boos, but because that name really did sound as stupid as Vaz had told him it would. He’d been going for dark and mysterious, sort of ‘omen-of-death’; he’d even worn black clothes to help that idea take hold. But ‘Crow’ was as intimidating compared to ‘Crazy Steve’ as Adrien was to the man himself, and he had a feeling he was about to eat his own new nickname.

Some bright spark in the crowd began cawing, and it caught on; soon half the inebriated lot was cawing obnoxiously in Adrien’s direction. He had a sudden flashback to a certain feathered Parisian villain. He hadn’t considered Mr. Pigeon very intimidating until he’d met a New York pigeon and learned the true meaning of fear. _Even Mr. Pigeon was probably a better name option than ‘Crow’._

The announcer circled around to Adrien, still giving off a strangely bouncy, first-day-of-school energy. “Yo, Crow, you ready for this one?”

Shaking off his self-directed anger, Adrien leaned forward into the mic. This was his chance to win over the crowds and their pockets – might as well play the part. “The real question is, is Stevie ready?”

“ _Ohhhhh!_ You hear that, Crazy Steve?” Crazy Steve bared his teeth across the ring at Adrien, who smirked, extended a hand, and curled his fingers in the universal come-get-me invitation. The crowd ate it up, shouting and screaming like a many-headed siren.

“All right, let’s get it poppin’,” the announcer yowled. “Hey, ring that bell!”

The bell rang. The announcer leapt out of the way. Crazy Steve charged.

Adrien neatly dodged the first swing. Crazy Steve’s fighting style was best compared to a bear who had been Mace’d: loud, blind, and absolutely terrifying up close. It wasn’t difficult to predict his movements, but they weren’t easy to avoid by virtue of his sheer reach. His arms flailed as he came at Adrien again with a guttural yell. Adrien ducked out of the way and landed a solid hit on Steve’s ribs. The man barely flinched; Adrien, on the other hand, winced and shook out his hand as he dodged again.

“Here, little birdie,” snarled Crazy Steve, crashing towards him in an avalanche of flesh. Adrien darted to the side and tried to trip him, but to no avail: he might as well have been a butterknife trying to saw down Everest. Steve finally got in a glancing blow on Adrien’s hip as he spun away. It hurt, but he could still put weight on it.

 _No healing Miracle this time, though,_ he reminded himself grimly. _What hurts keeps hurting._

“I’m your first fight,” roared Steve, lumbering around the ring and raising his fists to the crowds. They cheered him on mindlessly. “And I’m gonna be your last, birdbrain _._ ”

“‘Crazy Steve’ is a good name,” Adrien retorted. “Cause you’re _stork raven mad_.” It didn’t really make sense – he was the one with the bird name, after all – but he’d learned long ago that senseless puns had a tendency to drive enemies into a berserker rage. Crazy Steve, who was now practically foaming at the mouth, appeared no exception to this. The jeering laughs of a few fickle observers did not help Steve’s mood.

“I’m gonna turn you into scrambled eggs,” he snarled, lunging maladroitly at Adrien again, who sidestepped.

“They should have called you Ballerina Steve,” Adrien mocked. “You’re _poultry in motion_.”

No laughs from the crowd this time; ‘poultry’ was probably beyond their usual four-letter vocabulary. But the mockery served to enrage Steve even further. He growled through bared golden teeth and flexed a massive fist, thick rings shimmering dully. “You’re gonna be peeling these out of your teeth, birdie.”

“Birds don’t have teeth,” Adrien informed him patiently as he began circling just out of Steve’s reach. “I assumed you’d know that, Steven.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Adrien repeated. “You seem to be pretty familiar with birds, given that one appears to have used your head for a toilet.”

He gestured at Crazy Steve’s grease-encrusted scalp. The crowd lost it. _Okay, we’ve got a strong emotional association to the word ‘toilet’_ , Adrien noted. _Gotta calibrate to kindergarten level_.

An inhuman sound ripped from between Steve’s sharpened teeth, and he charged, head down like a bull. They became a study in contrasts: Adrien a light breeze, nowhere and everywhere, and Steve a whirlwind of thrashing limbs. Adrien landed a few more hits, which appeared to do more psychological than physical damage; Steve got a couple in, one on Adrien’s right side, one above his eye. Blood trickled into Adrien’s field of vision. He wiped it away impatiently, ignoring the bloom of pain between his ribs. _Work through it_.

He had underestimated his opponent’s stamina and overestimated his own. While Steve was breathing heavily, he did not appear winded. Adrien, on the other hand, felt himself starting to slow down. The muscle memory of his youth was beginning to fail him. It felt as if an eager fisherman had hooked his lung and was trying to reel it in. _Dad bod,_ he thought grimly. _The longest walk I’ve had in five years is to the bar down the street. If I live through this, maybe I’ll start doing yoga. Tikki would get a kick out of that._

Steve lurched his way, and Adrien moved just in time, sending Steve careening into one of the thick barricades. The colossus bellowed, falling flat on his rear and clutching bruised ribs. The raucous crowd jeered. Adrien heard a few shouts of ‘Crow’ and even a couple ‘French Fry’s (although he didn’t check to see if Vasily had changed his mind about the match outcome).

“What the _duck_ was that?” Adrien taunted Steve, “You’ll never make it into pointe shoes with those moves.”

He tried to look unruffled as Steve staggered to his feet. Pain, loathing, and rage were etched into every feature of the man’s face; it was like staring into the heart of a hurricane. Steve’s roars had faded to incoherent snarls, and his chest was heaving with exertion. _Just a little longer, and maybe his heart will do the job for me,_ thought Adrien hopefully.

Steve rushed him one last time, and this time Adrien did not step aside. Instead, he scrambled onto the barrier and launched himself directly at Steve, arms outstretched as if reaching for a hug. They collided with a _thwack_. Adrien locked his legs around Steve’s thick waist, cupped his hands, and slapped them over Steve’s ears.

The massive man screamed in agony.

They both dropped to the ground, Adrien’s hands still cupped around Steve’s ears, legs still tied around his waist. Steve landed on top of him, and Adrien felt something _crunch_ in his chest. He gasped, more from shock than pain, and struggled to breathe beneath the writhing weight of the man pinning him down.

There was no escape. Steve was too big, too heavy, still screaming in pain. He was pushing Adrien into the ground. Panic rose in Adrien’s throat as he twisted violently, trying to escape. It felt like he was drowning, trapped with no oxygen, black spots starting to dance at the edge of his vision. He knew this feeling. He knew where this scene would end.

He couldn’t stop the memories from taking control.

_He was Chat Noir, and he was pinned beneath an enormous, heavily muscled body. The air was being squeezed out of him as the man struggled. But gradually, the man’s efforts faded to spasms and he finally stilled, allowing Adrien to roll the body off himself and gasp for breath. It was all he could do to keep the blackness of unconsciousness at bay, but he had to get up. He had to go._

Get up, _he screamed at himself,_ get up get up get UP!

_Finally, too slowly, he staggered to his feet and began running gracelessly towards the huddled mass on the ground, defiance surging through every cell in his body._

_He knew as soon as he reached her that there was nothing left to hope for. Soon, there would be nothing left to live for. But not quite yet – her chest was still rising and falling in a short, shallow pattern._

_Her eyes fluttered beneath the mask. Every time they opened, it was like catching a glimpse of the sky. He finally reached her side and collapsed next to her, wanting desperately to take her into his arms and give her life, give her warmth, give her anything but what he knew was coming. But her scarlet uniform was torn in a dozen places; it was impossible to tell her costume from her lifeblood. He was so afraid to touch her._

_“Ch-chat,” she whispered. “We did it. We beat them.”_

_“Yeah,” he whispered back. Tears were mixing with the blood and grime on his face, and he looked away so none would fall on her. “It was all you, Ladybug.”_

_“I’m so cold, Chat.”_

_"Y-you’re going to be okay. I’ll take care of you. It’ll be okay,” he repeated desperately. He took her hand, scanning her injuries. “Where does it hurt most? We’ll be fine, I’ll fix things, you can Miraculous this - ”_

_Her eyes fluttered in the direction of her shattered yo-yo._

_"I don’t think there’s a fix this time, Kitty,” she whispered. “You’re going to have to save the world for both of us now.”_

He was drowning.

_“Live for me,” she insisted, words slurring. “You have to live.”_

He was drowning and there was no escape.

_"I always wanted to tell you…”_

Finally, mercifully, everything went black.

* * *

The first thing he realized when he came to was that he hadn’t even _considered_ stripping.

_Just jumped straight to street fighting. Rookie move. I could probably make way more as a stripper, even with a dad bod. Women like that, right? Why didn’t Rocky pursue a Chippendale instead of getting beat up at the end of every movie? Probably the nose. Yeah, it was the nose._

Adrien’s eyes were still closed, so he couldn’t see the extent of the damage done to his body, but he could definitely feel it. Every inch of his body felt like a swirling black hole of pain; somewhere around his abdomen, it felt like a thousand tiny bees had taken up permanent residence. His head didn’t feel as swirly as it had when he had first begun to wake up, but the disorientation was being replaced rapidly by a pounding headache.

Which brought him to his second realization: he was alive.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.

He sensed motion nearby and tensed. Things were much quieter than before: the roaring crowd, Crazy Steve’s animal snarls, and the announcer’s commentary had been replaced with the steady hum of electric lights. He felt something soft beneath him. Was the match over? Maybe Crazy Steve had passed out before he had. Maybe he had still won the prize.

“That was quite a move,” said a male voice from somewhere near his elbow. “I haven’t seen a thunderclap strike in twenty years. It’s almost impossible to get that right.”

Adrien tried to look deeply asleep. If this man was an enemy, he might still have the element of surprise.

“Ruptured eardrums are no joke,” the voice continued. It wasn’t a voice he recognized – the speaker was middle-aged, if he had to guess. “Those things hurt like a word-my-wife-wouldn’t-want me to say. Steve’ll be fine in a few weeks, but he might wear earmuffs to the next fight.” The voice chuckled. “Gotta say, I loved watching that guy go down. Goliath brought down by a tiny little slap.”

Adrien remained rigid.

“It’s okay, kid, I’m fixing you up. Not gonna bodyslam you back into oblivion – you might tear these stitches I’ve spent so long on.”

Adrien’s abdomen stung again as he felt something pulling on the skin. “There, now you have one less hole to worry about. I’d watch the big one in your face, though – your mouth almost got you killed tonight. Crazy Steve _hates_ dad jokes. I think they remind him of the time his father went to the comedy bar and never came back.”

Adrien cracked an eye. The man was staring at him expectantly. “That was really bad,” Adrien said weakly.

“No it wasn’t. You just have a concussion.”

“Did I win?”

The man began chuckling. “Thanks, kid, I needed a laugh.”

Adrien, both eyes open now, sat up. He was laid out on a couch that looked like it had been skinned alive by very mobile butts. He squinted at the man next to him, whose quiet bearing and cropped hair looked vaguely familiar. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I’m the cut man for Fight Night,” said the man, now turning to a small table and gathering up some shiny silver instruments. “In charge of reattaching limbs and, in one case, an eyebrow. Just glued it right back on. That was a fun night.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Definitely not. And _these_ are definitely not pain pills I’m giving you. You should definitely not take them,” said the cut man, handing Adrien a couple white capsules in a small cup.

Adrien frowned.

The cut man sighed. “Geez, kid, were you this stupid _before_ the concussion?” When Adrien stubbornly refused to swallow the strange pills, the man sighed again and shrugged, turning back to his tools. “It’s your funeral. That rib is going to hurt like Hades.”

Adrien felt at his left side. A large, thick bandage was covering a significant portion of his ribcage. He vaguely remembered Steve landing on top of him, but everything after that…he shook his head to clear the unwanted memories.

“So if you’re not a doctor, who are you?” he challenged.

“Believe it or not, I’m a baker. Turns out endless patience is a transferrable skill. I prefer beignets to broken ribs, but they don’t always pay the bills, so…here I am.” The man spread his arms in a shrug. “New York rent is pretty expensive, so I supplement where I can.”

“Now that, I understand,” Adrien muttered. “Where’s Crazy Steve?”

“Oh, that guy never lets me help him. He’s basically held together with duct tape and fragile masculinity at this point. It was hard to keep him out of my little emergency room here – he wanted to kill you after that stunt you pulled.”

Adrien glanced around at their surroundings. It was dim, a single naked bulb illuminating the small room. Judging by the posters of vintage cars and smell of grease, this was the back room of the auto shop.

“So, anyways,” the man said cheerily. “What are your thoughts on crème pat?”

“Excuse me?”

“Crème pat? Crème patisserie? It’s French? I thought you were French. Sorry, shouldn’t have assumed.”

“No, I know what it is. Why are you asking me about it?

The man finally finished packing up his little silver instruments and turned to Adrien. “Well, kid, seems to me like you have plenty of pent-up rage, and you can hit things pretty well. I'm looking for someone with those two qualifications - both of those things come in handy when you have dough that needs kneading. I could use the help.”

He waved his arms, and for the first time, Adrien’s fuzzy brain registered that one of the man’s sleeves ended in emptiness. He was missing a hand. “Wait, you stitched me up one-handed?”

The man raised his eyes heavenwards. “Well, it wasn’t the backdoor surgery fairy. She would have left a Xanax under your pillow.”

Adrien forced his eyes away from the man’s missing hand and tried to remember what he had just said. “Wait, are you offering me a job?”

The man shrugged, looking at him with a dry pity. “Well, you did miss out on the big prize. Judging by your reaction to the New York rent discussion, and your willingness to battle someone with _that_ many face tattoos, I’d say you need money pretty badly.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, the dried blood on your face is a testament of wellbeing.”

“Whatever,” Adrien muttered. “I don’t need charity.”

The man snorted. “ _Charity?_ You’ve never worked at a bakery before, have you?”

Adrien shook his head. The truth was, he’d only worked as a Chinese tutor, for Ubereats, and as a fencing instructor. Most days, he was too drunk to even riposte with a park bench, much less drive a bike in New York; the mommy message boards had ripped him to shreds after he’d shown up to tutoring with a hangover. He supposed that wasn’t entirely his dead father’s fault.

“It takes a healthy amount of self-loathing and sheer desperation to run a bakery in New York. I’m basically offering you a death sentence. Not charity. Not many people would choose this job, no matter what it looks like in the Hallmark movies. This isn’t a 9-5 job - your arms are going to shake from pounding dough all day, your hands are going to crack from washing the same things over and over and over, and you might burn off all your hair when we torch the meringue. But it’ll pay your rent a little longer.”

Adrien set the cup of pills on the floor next to the couch. “I’m already behind. Fifteen bucks an hour isn’t going to cut it for me. I need money now.”

“Don’t we all.” The man scratched his neck and sighed. “Listen. Everyone says the most important ingredient is love. They’re wrong; the most important ingredients anyone in the food industry could have are anger and desperation. You have plenty of both. Plus, I’m pretty sure you _are_ French, and that would lend us some legitimacy.”

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “I have this. My Fight Night salary from the last few nights. It’s basically blood money, so I feel bad taking it anyways.” He put it on the couch beside Adrien, who stared at it. “Consider it an advance.”

Adrien didn’t touch it. “Aren’t you worried I’ll run off with it and never show up for work?”

The cut man shrugged again. “You’re here, which means you’re already out of options. That’s only enough for a month. You’re going to need a steady stream of income if you’re going to keep surviving.”

 _Survival, again. Apparently it_ is _still a literal thing._

 _“_ I’m not out of options,” Adrien said aloud. “I’m thinking of trying exotic dancing.”

The man just stared at him.

“You didn’t hear that,” Adrien mumbled.

His companion rolled his eyes. “Well, if _that_ falls through, here’s the address.” He passed Adrien a navy-blue business card. It read _Dough Chateau_ in big blocky print, with an address and contact information below. It was stamped with a minimalist outline of what he recognized as Versailles.

“Dough Chateau?” he asked dubiously.

“It’s catchy and descriptive. You know - French bakery.”

“It’s a little cliché.”

“Hey, watch it. You’re talking to your future boss. Who just bailed you out, need I remind you. Come in Monday and I’ll show you the ropes.” The cut man straightened up, slipped his bag of tools over one shoulder, and headed for the door.

“Wait,” Adrien called. He felt knocked off balance, and not just from the beating. “I don’t even know your name.”

The cut man paused, hand on the doorknob, and looked over one shoulder. His face was half in shadow, lending his rather worn features a peculiar cast. “Call me David,” he said, and left Adrien sitting with a business card and a pile of money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this chapter was so fun to write! Probably my favorite to date. I don’t typically enjoy writing, reading, or watching fight scenes; I’m not really a fan of WWE or anything. I had to do a lot of research on street fighting - Rumble in the Bronx was a good resource, although it messed up my Youtube algorithm haha. But I was kind of tired of writing Sad characters (literally everyone in this story), and Adrien got to be more fun in this chapter.  
> This chapter evolved a lot – originally it was Adrien going clubbing, and it came out really clunky and I hated it. Then it was Adrien working at the bakery, and it was just kind of ‘meh’. Then inspiration struck while I was doing lunges for some reason? And here we are.  
> SO MANY IDEAS for the bakery name. I just really love the idea of Adrien at a bakery. It seems like he would really be at home there. If he were a baked good, he’d be a Crème au Caramel. (Except in this story. In this story he’s that weird black squid ink ice cream.) I ended up choosing Dough Chateau because…if I had a bakery…that’s what I would name it…it was a little self-indulgent, but considering this is fanfiction, I think that’s the name of the game.  
> As for the necklace that said ‘Skux’…anyone seen Hunt for the Wilderpeople? I saw that movie a week ago and I’m obsessed with it. The funeral scene had me on the floor. Crazy Steve may or may not be a reference to Crazy Sam.  
> Also...school started this week and I'm literally dying.  
> Anyways *youtuber voice" this is my unboxing video don't forget to like comment and subscribe!!!!! xoxo


	5. Fever Dream High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: some disturbing scenes, allusion to a past assault.

“The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.” ― Lois Lowry, The Giver

_So,_ Mei thought, tracing shapes on the bus window as her breath fogged it up, _I speak Chinese now._ _That should be a good thing. Right?_

The tiny stick figure she’d drawn did not respond. She frowned at it. _Maybe I should have drawn you bigger ears,_ she told it. _Don’t you think me speaking Chinese is a good thing?_

The stick figure began to fade away, lost against the mid-morning light shining through the window. Mei’s sigh made the outline pop back into existence. _I think it might be a clue towards my actual identity. Daiyu even said I remind her of her granddaughter. Who is Chinese. That means I might be Chinese too, right?_

The stick figure sulked stiffly in silence.

 _Okay, don’t dismiss that idea so quickly,_ Mei thought at it as she traced it a tiny stick girlfriend. _Here’s what I’ve got: my hair is black and I speak Chinese. Thoughts?_

Neither the stick figure nor its girlfriend seemed to have a counterargument, so she provided one herself. _Of course, my eyes are also blue. Curse you, ethnic ambiguity._

Said ethnic ambiguity had allowed her to cross borders without sticking out too much, so she supposed it wasn’t the worst thing. In the right light, if you squinted, she resembled half the world’s population. This expanded the number of pockets that Plagg could steal passports out of. A little hair dye here, some colorful contacts there, and she could pass for pretty much anyone.

 _I look like I could belong anywhere, instead of nowhere. I wish I was a conjoined twin,_ she told the stick figures glumly. _Or three feet tall. Or anyone but me, really. If I was a little less generic, then maybe someone would be missing me._

The stick girlfriend’s face began to melt, as if she were weeping. _Sorry. That was pretty melodramatic. If there’s one thing a girl on the run really needs, it’s probably multilingualism. Maybe my parents were diplomats and an enemy country kidnapped me and stole my memory somehow. That would explain the language thing. Or maybe I’m from a family of super-spies. That would explain why the crazy guy’s chasing us._

 _Or maybe it’s just me and my little demon._ Mei drew a tiny cat next to the stick figure. _Us against the forces of the universe. And our newest addition._ An elderly stick figure completed the rudimentary tableau.

Next to her, Daiyu stirred as if she had heard Mei’s thoughts. It had come as somewhat of a relief when the elder woman had fallen asleep. Between Daiyu’s endless chatter and Plagg’s fitful twitching as he dozed off, it had been difficult to find time alone with her thoughts. But finally, mercifully, in the early hours of the morning, both Plagg and Daiyu had fallen asleep. (At least, she assumed Plagg was asleep. She hadn’t seen him earlier when rifling through her bag for paper and a pencil, but it was likely he had wriggled his way into her balled-up sweatshirt and dozed off. She’d have to remember to de-hair that later.)

The stick figures were disintegrating into fat drops of moisture, so Mei restored their outlines with a single, long breath. _You’re not getting out of this_ , she told them sternly. _I need someone to freak out to. Plagg was so casual about this. How on_ earth _do I know Chinese?!_

When Daiyu had struck up a conversation at the lonely bus stop, Mei had been on her guard. Given all the strange things she had seen Sharkboy do, shapeshifting into a geriatric tourist no longer seemed like an impossibility for him. But there was something disarming about Daiyu’s shallow questions and gentle complaints about the hot Chilean sun, a warmth in her voice that Mei hadn’t felt since she awoke from darkness. Gradually, she had let down some of her walls. It just felt so nice to talk to a real human being – at the very least, someone who didn’t have claws and snark to spare.

At the time, Mei had assumed the woman was speaking Spanish or English. Before she could resist, Daiyu had frog-marched her onto the tour bus, declaring she couldn’t let ‘a slip of a thing like you stay outside too long or you’ll blow away’ and engaged her in near-nonstop conversation. It wasn’t until Daiyu had asked her which part of China she was from that Mei had realized they were conversing in fluent Chinese. For the longest time, she had assumed she was French…until they’d been forced to flee to Spain, and the Spanish had flown from her lips like birds fleeing winter.

Beside her, Daiyu smacked her lips and yawned. She blinked blearily at Mei’s stick family. “Oh, that’s lovely, child,” she said. “Are you an artist?”

Mei laughed. “No. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve never really tried drawing – I prefer writing.”

“Well, who are they meant to be? Your family?”

A pang. “I suppose so.”

“You must miss them terribly. All alone out here, with no one to talk to – I _cannot_ believe you don’t even have a phone! Your poor mother must be worried sick about you. When is the last time you spoke to her?”

“Too long, probably,” Mei mumbled.

“Well, after we visit Tiwanaku, we’ll be sure to find you an internet café so that you can message her. And then we’ll go shopping – there’s an open-air market that’s simply famous for haggling, and I’m quite sure I can negotiate you a pair of pants. I know ripped jeans are all the rage now, but honestly – you look homeless.”

Mei glanced down at her pants. They were indeed ripped nearly to shreds in some places, although not in the name of fashion.

“And we must be sure to feed you,” Daiyu continued. “The way you’ve been stuffing those ginger candies down, you must be starving. Would you like some more, dear?”

“No, thank you though, Auntie,” Mei said hastily.

“Well, anyways, we’ll find you a good meal. Going all the way to America by yourself…did you know, I’ve never been to America? My second-youngest grandchild, Bao, moved there a few years ago, and I’ve been meaning to visit, but I don’t travel by plane and the cruises are rather expensive.”

“How did you get here if you don’t travel by plane?” Mei asked, seizing on the topic. Daiyu had been getting dangerously close to asking her about her personal life. Plagg had always told her she was a terrible liar and talking too much about herself was sure to end in contradictions.

“We took a boat, of course. _Such_ a long way, but worth the trip – I’ve always wanted to see South America. Treasure has been promising me for years and years, haven’t you, Treasure?”

Her husband, snoring softly, did not reply.

“There was one simply _dreadful_ night, when we were caught in a storm, but aside from that it was a lovely trip. My great-granddaughter, Hua, has always said…” She launched into a lengthy explanation of Hua’s exact thoughts on luxury cruises. Mei felt an odd, misplaced jealousy towards this apparently world-wise teenager; she and Plagg had once hidden in a pile of inner tubes to escape Sharkboy, but that was the extent of her experience with watercraft. To hear Daiyu describe her granddaughter, the girl might have been a British naval commander. _I wonder if I have a grandmother. I wonder if she was ever proud of me._

She snapped back into the conversation when Daiyu pinched her cheeks softly. “Ai! If you lose any more weight, dear, one sneeze will send you to the moon. You really must take better care of yourself. Otherwise you’ll end up like me – bad teeth and weak bones.” Daiyu paused. “I know right now you’re enjoying youth and freedom, Mei, but it doesn’t last.”

She was quiet for a while after that, and Mei’s thoughts wandered again. She gazed out the window at the dusty flatlands and the distant hills, spun to pure gold by the morning light. Tiwanaku seemed like a harsh place to live. She imagined the ancient people who had once lived here scratching a living out of the defiant earth, raising crops and cities and families.

It was ironic that Daiyu had told her to stop chasing freedom when really, Mei wanted just the opposite. She’d take prison if it meant a forwarding address and busy visiting hours.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Daiyu said quietly, following Mei’s gaze out the window. “It looks as if it stretches on for miles and miles. You could wander out here for years and never see another soul, I believe.” There was a wistful longing in her voice. “It reminds me of my hometown – Suopo.”

“What was it like?” Mei asked.

“Suopo? Well, nothing like this at all, actually. It was every shade of green you can imagine – bright green mixed with gold in the summer, a dark dead green in the winter. Even the sky just looked like a bluish sort of green. And there were mountains, too. Not like the Andes, not sharp and cold, but rolling and friendly. The kind of mountains you could climb into like a warm bed.”

As Daiyu spoke of her hometown, she seemed to close, drawing her innate warmth in close like a candle in the face of a sudden wind. The woman had spoken of Chilean food with fascination, of Tiwanaku with anticipation, of her family with love. But this was the first time Mei had heard any sort of sadness tinge her words. “Why did you leave?” she asked, intrigued.

Daiyu paused again, something flickering in the deep creases of her face.

“Well,” she finally said. “I suppose you could say that I had wandering feet. I loved Suopo, but even its mountains seemed short by the time I was sixteen. I wanted to see the world that the soldiers in town spoke of. The towering cities, the golden streets. Most of all, I wanted to fly in an airplane – to go higher than the mountains. It was a fantasy world – one where even a farmer’s daughter could dare to touch the clouds. The Party had promised women equality, you see. I wanted to explore what that could mean.”

“The Party?”

“The Communist Party, dear.” Daiyu frowned slightly at her. “You did say you grew up on the mainland, yes?”

“Right,” Mei said quickly. “So what did you do?”

“Well, the next time a contingent of men left town, I attached myself to it as a cultural worker.”

Mei waited, unsure what that was but afraid to ask. It wouldn’t do for Daiyu to realize she’d lied about her identity. _Although I might actually be Chinese_.

“I told them I was a dancer, although anyone could have seen that was a lie. I didn’t have a single graceful bone in my body. But I was young and cheerful and eager to leave Suopo, and back then that was enough. They told me I could learn on the road. So I left behind my home, my family, and even my name; I wanted to start over completely, make a new life for myself. We did shows for the soldiers to boost their morale. At first we only did the smaller towns along the road, but eventually my troupe caught the eye of the higher-ups. Sometimes they would even request me specially. I was the best fan dancer,” Daiyu said proudly. “I practiced every day for at least two hours. It was my equivalent of your study abroad, dear. I danced until my feet bled. Eventually it paid off – they told me I could join the group assigned to Korea. It was everything I had dreamed of. And then….”

She trailed off. Mei was captivated. Beneath Daiyu’s age, Mei could almost see the woman she had been – young, reckless, daring. Eager to explore, not because she was being hunted into the wilds, but because she herself was the hunter.

“The soldiers in camp told me what an honor it was.” Daiyu’s voice went quiet. Lines carved deeply into her face, casting her features in an odd, stark light. Her eyes were misted in memories. “They told me I was going to fly on the captain’s own plane. I’d met him at some of my shows. He was sophisticated, highly decorated, and much older than me. The girls and I giggled every time we saw him in the audience. I suppose…you could say we were infatuated with him.”

The lines in her face sharpened so deeply they looked close to bleeding. “He had his own chauffer pick me up from camp to drive me to the air base. I poked my head out the window to watch the planes coming in and out…He greeted me at the hangar like a gentleman and showed me the planes I’d longed to see with my own eyes. He seemed so knowledgeable. I was so excited when we finally took off…” Daiyu’s voice cut like a knife. “That is, until I learned what the soldiers had meant by ‘honor’.”

Mei felt a chill.

“When we landed, they left me on the side of the road and drove on. I had no money, no name, and no dignity. It was two days before I managed to make it to the nearest village. I haven’t flown in a plane since then.”

Daiyu’s eyes were still distant, and her voice had lost its sharp edge. Mei had no idea what to say. She felt sick – guilty, even. Daiyu’s decision to give up her home and family and name voluntarily had stirred up an odd, wistful envy in Mei. Now she wished she could sink through the bus seat to the road and just lay there for a while. _In all my wallowing, I never realized how much the cost of a home might actually be_. 

Daiyu’s husband, who had awakened at some point during the story, placed a hand on her arm and said something that Mei didn’t quite catch. The lines on Daiyu’s face lightened, and she smiled at Mei. “So, no, Suopo is nothing like this” she said softly. “I never did go back.”

The old woman’s eyes locked on Mei’s. “The longest journey you will ever take,” she said quietly, “is the last step to your own front door. Take it sooner rather than later, Mei. I’m sure your mother misses you.”

The bus rolled to a stop. Daiyu immediately began fussing with her many suitcases, digging through them to find sunscreen and hats and other supplies. The knife in her voice had been sheathed. But her words haunted Mei. _The longest journey_ …

Mei slung her ratty backpack over one shoulder and climbed out after Daiyu and Yeong-Su, glancing back only once. On her window, the stick family had faded; only a faint, ghostly outline remained.

* * *

The tour guide wore a contemptuous expression as the tour group gathered around her. Her dark hair was slightly wavy and crowned with a neon-green plastic visor. A ruffled orange shirt, loose yellow pants, and hot pink purse completed Mei’s conclusion that this woman feared nothing and no one.

“Well, we’ve arrived,” the tour guide announced. “In case you have slept through the tour thus far, I am your tour guide, Linyao. Not that I’d blame you if you had. It’s mostly been old rocks so far. Why anyone thinks those are worth preserving is beyond me. Anyways, welcome to Tiwanaku. We’ll spend a few torturous hours here before mercifully moving on the city, which boasts a few truly wonderful bars.”

Next to Mei, Daiyu huffed. “If she didn’t speak the local language so well, we’d have switched groups already,” she muttered.

Linyao fixed Daiyu with a piercing gaze. “Didn’t catch that,” she said shortly. “I was too distracted by wishing for the sweet release of death. In this wasteland, it shouldn’t take long. Why any of you _wanted_ to come here defies reason.”

“It’s on the tour itinerary,” one of the other tourists protested.

“Is it?” Linyao said, apparently unconcerned. “I didn’t read anything past ‘Hard Rock Café’. Let’s go, then.”

Everyone trudged off after Linyao, who seemed determined to leave everyone behind if possible. She seemed almost disappointed when she stopped and turned to find them still following. “Over here,” Linyao announced, gesturing at a squat, wide hill in the distance, “we have a pile of dirt. You could have seen this in China, so it seems like a lot of trouble for you all to have come here. But you paid to see the pile of dirt. So here is the pile of dirt. Take as many pictures as you feel justifies the cost of your plane ticket.”

One elderly man spoke up cautiously. “Is there any sort of significance to the hill?”

Linyao sighed, then began rattling off information in a bored voice. “This is the Akapana Pyramid. It is a cross-shaped building measuring 257 meters wide, 197 meters broad at its maximum, and 16.5 meters tall, according to Wikipedia. It is one of the largest buildings in antiquity, although it was never finished. On the western side is a staircase lined with numerous sculptures. You can see the irregular shape; it was subject to looting after the fall of the city. What do you suppose the purpose of the pyramid might have been?” She shot the question at the elderly man.

“Was it a temple?” he asked hesitantly.

Linyao scowled. “Tourists always think every old building in South America is a temple. Not everything was ancient gods and blood sacrifices.”

“So…what was it for?”

“Well, based on the fact that they found a bunch of skulls lining its perimeter, it was probably a temple.”

With that, Linyao stalked off again, leaving the others to follow in her wake.

* * *

After visiting a few more sites, the group stopped for lunch. Daiyu beckoned Mei over and stuffed her arms full of food – salteñas, tamales, and rolls. Mei had to be careful not to drop any in the dirt. When she began to protest to Daiyu that this was too much food and tried to hand her some of it back, Daiyu simply stuffed her open mouth with a _cuñapé._

Resistance seemed futile, so Mei stuffed her face. She covertly stuffed a few rolls into her bag as well, hoping that Plagg’s continued stillness was a result of sleep and not starvation. He hadn’t so much as twitched when they’d disembarked from the bus; usually he made his dissatisfaction known by headbutting her through the backpack. She sighed. It probably meant he’d chosen to shred her cardstock instead.

Beside her, Daiyu opened up a guidebook. “I’m glad I brought this,” she told Mei. “Linyao is quite knowledgeable, but getting anything out of her before happy hour is like trying to convince a panda to do ballet.”

With that, Daiyu flipped open to a page depicting the very ruins they were sitting among and began exclaiming with each new piece of information she encountered. “She was spot-on about everything, bless her. The Kalasasaya _is_ actually aligned to the four cardinal directions. I wonder how they knew what those were. We’ll see Pumapunku later, so I don’t want to spoil that…Linyao was right, the pyramid _is_ made of andesite…oh, look, one of its blocks is estimated to weigh over sixty-five tons! The book says it was inscribed with pumas and shamans, possibly representing the shape-shifter mythology. It looks so intricate – I wonder if we can get closer to the site and see it ourselves.” Daiyu sighed happily and clutched the book to her. “I could spend years here.”

“You don’t _have_ years,” Linyao called from where she was hunched over a flask and bag of Doritos.

Daiyu pretended not to hear her and continued flipping through the book. “Incredible,” she said softly. “The Incan people believed Tiwanaku was the center of the world. The place where it was created. They believed their god brought the Sun and Moon together here, and pulled stars from the lake. They believed he made them here, from the stones.”

Mei looked around. They were sitting on collapsed blocks of stones, surrounded by stone ruins. _What did that feel like?_ she asked them. _Do you remember being born from stone?_ _What was it like to just wake up one day on the ground?_

_When you woke up, was there someone beside you?_

Not surprisingly, the stones were no more responsive than the stick figures.

* * *

After lunch, they continued to wander the various sites. Mei was particularly captivated by two freestanding stone structures: the Gate of the Sun and its counterpart, the Gate of the Moon. While the gate of the moon was relatively thin and elegant, the Gate of the Sun was thick and heavy. A large crack ran through the top towards the sides. Carved from a single block of andesite, it was adorned with strange carvings.She couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if the central figure was wearing a halo of cat heads.

“Pumas, dear,” Daiyu clarified when Mei mentioned this to her. “The ancient people worshipped them. Pumas are considered sacred. So the god – that figure in the middle – is illumined with a bas-relief of pumas to demonstrate his power.”

Linyao, standing at the base of the Gate of the Sun, scoffed. “Is that what the guidebook told you? Those aren’t pumas. They’re circles.”

Daiyu frowned. “I’m quite sure they’re pumas.”

“Which of us has a degree in Mesoamerican Archeology?” countered Linyao.

“Which of us is using an ancient, sacred structure to remain upright after too much day drinking?” snapped Daiyu.

Linyao chuckled reluctantly. “Touché.”

Mei walked around the monolith, stunned at its sheer size. It appeared to be carved from a single block of stone. Flying figures surrounded the central deity as if swarming it. “What was its purpose?”

“Temple,” said Linyao.

Mei frowned. “But it’s just a gate. How could it be a temple when you can’t do anything but walk through it?”

The tour guide sighed. “Fine. That answer normally satisfies tourists. They like to think of these ruins as mystical and arcane. Research says that it’s probably a calendar, legend that it’s a portal to the ‘land of the gods’.” She put sarcastic little quotation marks around the last part.

“The land of the gods?”

“Paradise. It was where the heroes of old went to join the gods. Occasionally, they’d bring a god back with them, which rarely ended well for them. It was like a foreign exchange program, only it usually ended in misery, tragedy, and hardship.” She paused. “So, it was just a foreign exchange program.”

Daiyu joined Mei in her slow examination of the Gate of the Sun. “It’s miraculous,” the older woman said softly. “That the stone was brought here, carved, and still standing is a testament to the artisans’ skill.”

She patted Mei’s shoulder. “Just wait till you see Machu Picchu. Hua tells me it’s a sight to behold.”

Mei looked Daiyu in the eye. The woman was smiling softly at her. Mei imagined climbing back into the bus, hearing more about Daiyu’s adventures, trekking from site to incredible site. Sharing cheesebread and bus seats, then falling asleep to the hum of the engine. Having someone to smile at her, tell her to take care of herself, read to her. For a moment, she let herself dream.

The moment didn’t last.

Three things happened all at once.

First, her bag nearly ripped off her shoulder as something inside began thrashing and yowling.

Second, the air was rent in two right in front of her. She could see darkened stars. Shadowed space. Eternity.

Third, the man who had hunted them across continents and seas stepped out of the rip. It closed behind him, zipping up neatly and disappearing.

Beside her, Daiyu let out a panicked shout. Mei stood frozen, staring at the hunter. His deep-set eyes glimmered behind the mask as he stared back at her. His mouth spread in a predatory grin, showing rows of gleaming white teeth. Dimly, she registered that the hole in his neck, opened by her gel pen, was nearly healed, leaving behind a faint pink pucker.

His voice ground out. “You didn’t make this easy.”

She just stood there in shock. Her bag, still distended by Plagg’s struggles, fell to the earth. His eyes, cold as a broken promise, followed it.

“He thought I couldn’t hear him,” the hunter rasped. “Your little feline friend. He thought they were all alone there. But I heard. Of course I heard – that’s the reason I lured him there, after all.”

Mei’s entire body was locked down in shock. He had ripped through fantasy and reality just when she was dreaming of a life on the road, instead of life on the run. A little part of her shattered.

He walked leisurely towards them, apparently convinced that Mei was too frightened to attack or run. “No little pen tricks this time, girl. Now you know I know where to find you, wherever you run.”

Ice in her veins. Stone in her legs.

Then Daiyu screamed.

It wasn’t a scream so much as a pitiful squeak, but it tore Mei from her stupor. She jerked into action, grabbed her bag, and zipped it open. Plagg flew out as she whipped out a small pocketknife.

“Why isn’t that _strapped_ to your _leg?_ ” he yowled in outrage. “Why don’t you have that thing surgically attached to your hand?! Have I taught you nothing?”

She ignored him, flipping out the blade and pushing Daiyu behind her. The trembling woman fell to the ground, and Mei aimed the knife at the hunter. “Not another step,” she snapped.

He chuckled, then reached into a pocket and pulled out a throwing star. “I didn’t think I’d need this last time,” he said, pointing it at her as if reprimanding her.

Mei cocked her head at his suit. “I can’t believe there’s pockets in that thing. I thought it was vacuum-sealed onto you or something – you look like Olivia Newton-John.”

He raised the throwing star, aiming it at her forehead. It glinted in the dying afternoon light. “Say hello to your parents for me.”

Suddenly something flew in front of her head. Plagg dove in front of her and hovered directly in the shuriken’s intended path. “You’ll have to go through me first,” he spat at the hulking man. “I’m what you want anyways, aren’t I?”

The throwing star lowered slightly; the man’s expression of jubilation tightened. “Move,” he said shortly.

Mei blinked once. Something about the hunter’s words... “My parents?”

The hunter looked beyond Plagg to her and smiled. “Yes, your parents. The dead ones. Ring any bells?”

She felt a dull shock go through her. It reverberated through her body like an earthquake, making it shake, reducing her mind to rubble. _Your parents. The dead ones. Your parents. The dead ones. Your parents the dead ones the dead ones the dead ones the dead the dead the dead dead dead_

The hunter eyed her. “I don’t believe it,” he said with an incredulous half-laugh. “You were _there_ when I killed them. You’re telling me you don’t remember?”

Those words kept repeating in her mind like a broken song. _Your parents. The dead ones._

His voice dropped, almost to a caress. “You can’t remember anything, can you? Do you even know who I am?”

 _Your parents. The dead ones._ She looked at him blankly. He seemed delighted.

“Incredible! Perhaps it was the fall…or perhaps…well, it doesn’t matter. Allow me to introduce myself.” He bowed slightly. “I’m Aurélien, and I’m going to kill you.”

Behind her, Daiyu cried softly.

_Dead._

“Right after I tell you your name, so that you can know that you are no one, with no family, and that _no one_ will mourn you.”

Mei stared at him uncomprehendingly. His voice sounded like frenzied ocean waves beating on a shore already crushed to sand. He raised the throwing star again. As death looked her in the eye, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

The next few moments felt stolen from someone else’s life.

Plagg, eyes glowing green with deathlight.

Plagg, cleaving through the air like a black dagger thrust into the heart of the earth.

Plagg, small voice somehow magnified, deepened, made terrible as if echoing from the depths of a shattered void. 

The moment his tiny foot struck the soil, he screamed a single word. “ _Cataclysm!_ ”

The world exploded as the ground was riven in two. Everything was chaos. Mei could barely make out the hulking mass that was Aurélien through the deafening chaos and mess of smoking dust. The man was struggling to keep his footing on the heaving earth; she wasn’t faring much better. She stumbled towards where Plagg had landed, trying not to fall into the crack now zigzagging through the stone and dirt. The crack shone with an eerie green light, as if ghosts were marching up through it.

Distant screams echoed from the tour group. The sky was burning. Plagg emerged from the destruction, eyes crackling with green energy. He began nudging her away from the scene, urgency pulsating through his small body.

 _“He’s coming!”_ Plagg bawled. _“We have to go, he’s coming!”_

Sure enough, Aurélien was stalking towards them – no longer leisurely, but murderously. Just as before, Mei was rooted to the ground, unable to do anything but watch him advance.

Just as he was about to reach them, however, he staggered. Daiyu had crept out from behind Mei, where she had fallen, and gotten hold of his legs. She grunted as Aurélien twisted, trying to kick her. With a strength that belied her ancient frame, Daiyu managed to put him off balance. He fell to the earth.

“Run, Mei _!”_ the woman screamed.

Mei’s legs began working before her brain did. Plagg still pushing her, she staggered away, blindly following the crack in the earth like a macabre yellow brick road. The green light led her into the shadows of the ancient city, the ruins trembling with an ethereal cast.

The earth continued to shake; the crack yawned wider and wider with each concussion. Through sheer autopilot, Mei remained upright. A scream followed by a shout behind them told her that Aurélien had finally broken free of Daiyu. He was coming for them.

Mei registered faintly that she was bleeding. It was trailing into her eyes, blocking her vision, and yet she couldn’t even find the inclination to brush it away. Her legs pumped rhythmically, muscle memory guiding her on, but she wanted nothing more than to stop and rest. Perhaps to just let herself fall into the chasm and let the light take her.

But before she could summon the will to give up, they rounded a corner and saw the Gate of the Sun.

It was glowing, shining, _bursting_ with the green light. Its broken edges had healed; the massive break near the top had disappeared. It looked radioactive against the dying horizon.

The path they were following led straight to it. Mei slowed as they drew closer, vaguely aware of a power thrumming from it like a warning. But Plagg pushed her on.

“GO!” he roared. “Straight through! Don’t stop!”

A bellow behind them made her turn automatically. Aurélien had rounded the corner and seen them.

Without another thought, as if in a dream, she kept moving towards the Gate of the Sun. Descended the short, sunken steps. Walked through the arch.

The green light vanished. The stone walls disappeared. The scents of sulfur and desert evaporated.

_The dead ones._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this chapter just felt like a big, bloated mess, and I was tempted to leave it till tomorrow. (Actually, I was tempted to delete the whole thing). But I loved writing it. I really did. 
> 
> I'm passionate about Mesoamerican art, history, and culture, and I got to do a ton of cool research for this chapter. Most of the Gate of the Sun info came from "Lightning in the Andes and Mesoamerica, Pre-Columbian, Colonial, and Contemporary Perspectives" by Staller. There actually is a lot of debate on circles vs. pumas.
> 
> I liked getting to dive into Daiyu's backstory, especially since Marinette doesn't really have one (that she knows of yet). As I was writing, I liked to think that the reason she jumped in to save Marinette from the big scary dude is because she wished someone would have done it for her.
> 
> As always, much love and gratitude to my inestimable commenters, kudo'ers, and readers. Grad school is sucking some considerable butt right now, and y'all make my day, you really do. Special thanks again to Keyseeker and Azzy, who let me info-dump about my bakery name brainstorms. 
> 
> Till next week! Byeeeeee!


	6. Homer Was Right All Along, or, There Is a Time For Many Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings, but there is a mention of mushroom on pizza.

“ **In his tent, Achilles grieved with his whole being and the gods saw he was a man already dead, a victim of the part that loved, the part that was mortal.” Louise Glück, Triumph of Achilles**

This new world had every one of her senses in a chokehold. Caught halfway between the numbness of despair and total overstimulation, each sensation became analog.

In the sea of chaos in which she now found herself flailing, her brain cobbled a life raft of lists.

Sounds. _Car horns. Shouting. Tires on concrete. Faint roaring underground._ _Insistent beeping._

Smells. _Feces. Garbage. Roasting meat. Something burning._

Sensations. _Sweaty air. Solid ground. Something warm against my back._

Tastes. _Ozone. Terror._

Sights.

There was too much to see to fit into the confines of a list. There were lights around her. So many lights, shining directly into her retinas as if conducting a search. Beige buildings shooting up like giants in a queue. Gutters and garbage piles on corners. A mother and her daughter hurrying along, part of a crowd, beneath a long awning. Street signs and window dressing scattered everywhere like confetti. Cars in a skewed parabola, drivers hanging halfway out their windows, mouths opening and closing rapidly.

She glanced up. Night sky. No stars.

Tiwanaku had completely disappeared, along with Aurélien. The sparse desert air, the smell of sulfur mixed with creosote, and the rent in the earth had been replaced by oppressive humidity, street falafel, and endless concrete. She was standing in the middle of a busy road staring down a taxicab. Its owner was now stomping in her direction, waving his arms and yelling in a foreign language she did not recognize.

She turned and fled.

As she crashed onto the busy sidewalk and began slipping between people and poles, she became aware that the warmth glued to her back was not her backpack – that had been a casualty of her shock. It was probably still lying on the worn sands of Tiwanaku. This warmth shook against her skin. Belatedly she realized it was Plagg, huddled beneath her t-shirt, claws dug into her waistband to keep from falling onto the grimy cement. She nearly stopped before realizing that this probably was not the best setting to pull him out and start interrogating him. But an interrogation felt long overdue. She began listing questions as she ran.

 _How did you do that? How did we get here? What are you really? Why are you with me? Do you know who I am?_ They swirled around her head like bathwater circling the drain. Aurélien had said something about her ‘feline friend’ thinking that he hadn’t been overheard, that Aurélien had lured him somewhere; that friend could only be Plagg. _Heard what? Lured where?_ Clearly, Plagg had escaped the hunter’s clutches, but not without divulging their location first. _Did Aurélien trick him somehow? Is he going to find us again?_

Suddenly panicked, she looked around wildly. But the streets, while brimming with bustling people, were empty of shark-suited maniacs.

 _Okay. No immediate danger._ Her questions would have to wait – first, she needed to find a place to hide. _Let’s figure out where we are._

As she kept pushing through the endless crowds surging like confused currents, she started to analyze her surroundings. _Big city. Big buildings. Lots of people._

A woman knocked into her shoulder without apologizing, jabbering rapidly English into a phone. _America,_ she thought. _Or possibly Canada._ In the back of her mind, she realized English was another language she could add to her instinctual repertoire. That realization would have to wait.

She rounded a corner onto a street crammed with shops, piled on top of each other haphazardly. One of them caught her eyes: _Joe’s Famous New_ _York Pizza._ The smell hit her a moment later. Basil and garlic, mixed with rising bread and toasted cheese, so delectable her eyes almost watered - so mouthwatering she almost missed the two words wedged into the middle of the sign.

She stopped dead in the middle of the overrun sidewalk. People jostled into her; Plagg nearly lost his grip on her waistband. “New York?”

It seemed impossible. As the days on the bus had stretched on, the miles ahead had seemed to stretch as well. Rather than being a point on a map, New York had nearly become a mythical place, like Heaven or Saturdays – some promised refuge at the end of a long journey. She’d only just begun to plan how to cross the border to the States.

But here they were.

Somehow, despite the overwhelming urban deluge, despite the fact that she had no money and no clothes except the ones she wore, despite the revelation that the madman chasing her had killed the only people she really cared to find, there was only one thing she could think of at that moment.

She really, really wanted a slice of that pizza.

* * *

It took a few tries, but eventually, she was able to collide with a customer departing from Joe’s without dislodging Plagg from her back. The customer’s pizza box went flying into the gutter. Fending off his fury with profuse apologies, she was able to make off with the couple slices that had not landed in the grime while he argued with the manager about making a replacement. Unfortunately, although the slices were not covered in gutter juice, they _were_ covered in mushrooms, which was nearly worse. But she supposed pizza thieves couldn’t be choosers. She took a moment to update her mental list as she slipped back through the crowd.

 _Things I hate on pizza: barbecue sauce, spinach, broccoli, eggplant, and now mushrooms._

She wandered aimlessly, time turning to slush as she focused on getting as much food as possible into her in the shortest amount of time. She picked the mushrooms off to save for Plagg later. Anywhere else, the unsightly bulge he made on her back might have made passersby gawk. In New York they didn't even glance away from their phones as they crossed the street.

A street sign told her she was on 42nd street. Lights nestled like bright birds chattered and flickered, beckoning her on. She shoved the last bite of pizza into her mouth as she tried not to gawk at the colorful storefronts. A blue and orange Dave and Buster’s clashed magnificently with the adjacent Madame Tussaud’s; finely dressed people gushed out of open theaters into the noisy streets. Everything competed for her attention – the sights, the sounds, the smells. They all tried to drown each other out.

Standing beneath a bright McDonalds sign, which had been done up in bright retro lights to mimic its surroundings, she glanced across the street. An old, gray building caught her attention. It was flat, almost nondescript, decked out in stone rather than lights. Relative to its skyscraping neighbors, it was short and boxy, but had a dignified air despite its height. The lower levels were boarded up, but the second levels were embellished with gorgeous neo-classical pillars and carved facades. Its timeless simplicity made the lights of 42nd Street look almost maudlin.

Something about it drew her across the street. She inspected the building more closely, noting again that it was boarded up with no entrance or exit. It looked empty. _At least for tonight_ , she thought, _which is more than enough._

She managed to slip into the back door of the next-door and infinitely more luminescent Lyric Theater. From the exhausted-looking stagehands rushing every which way, clad in black and clutching armfuls of fabric and random items, it appeared that a show had just finished. No one noticed her scurry up the back stairs. Eventually, she found a hatch to jimmy open with a stray costume pin and climbed onto the roof.

The old gray building was further down than it had looked from the street; there was no way she could jump down onto its roof and keep both legs. But there was a drainpipe positioned conveniently between the two theaters. She tested it with her foot. It creaked slightly but otherwise did not budge – the supports looked bolted to the side of the building.

Plagg finally unhooked from her waistband, creeping onto her shoulder. “What are you _doing?_ ”

“Routine maintenance,” she told him. “I’m a drainpipe inspector.”

“You can’t possibly be thinking of going down there. Last time I checked, only one of us can fly.”

“Last time you checked, we were still in Bolivia.” She knelt and turned, dangling her feet over the edge, took a deep breath, and locked her hands around the pipe. Plagg flew off her shoulder and hovered nervously nearby.

Slowly, carefully, she extended over the side and braced her feet against the wall. Glancing over at the street, she reassured herself that no one was looking up, and with another deep breath, she began to shimmy down. It took time, and a couple close calls involving what appeared to be bat guano slicking her foothold, but finally, she made it down to the gray building’s roof. She crouched and scurried to the small roof access door, drawing out the costume pin to pick its cheap lock. She paused.

“I don’t suppose you could just explode this,” she shot at Plagg without looking at him. “You didn’t have any problem destroying a UNESCO World Heritage site.”

“It was in ruins anyways,” he mumbled. “And it wasn’t my fault.”

That response brought on another myriad of questions, but she bit them back and focused on the lock. A few more minutes, and they were through.

Stairs led them down into darkness, although there was enough street illumination shining through the dusty windows to keep her from tripping all the way down. The stairway led through narrow hallways to cramped storage rooms filled with odd shapes draped in ghostly sheets. The silence and the thin walls seemed to press in on her. Plagg made no noise as he floated quietly along beside her; the lonely thumps of her footsteps beat a rhythm she didn’t want to hear.

Finally, the hallways and rooms converged in a vast atrium. The remains of a stage were spiderwebbed with a lattice of metal supports. Half of the rickety old seats had been torn out; the rest of them were covered in dust and faded red velvet. Audience boxes were set into the walls like honeycombs. It felt, she thought, like an enormous mausoleum with its smells of dead things and decades.

“Well,” she said aloud, “welcome home.”

She was exhausted enough that she didn’t bother exploring the ancient theater. Both of them had kept an eye out for security cameras; Plagg had an especial knack for finding them. Neither of them had noticed anything.

She yawned as she shook out the remains of a thick, velvet curtain they’d found behind the stage. “Let me know if any security guards come by.”

“I will. Unless I fall asleep.”

“Nope. You’re on guard duty – I already pulled my shift when you were hiding under my shirt.”

“But I’m exhausted,” Plagg groused.

“Too bad. You should have adjusted for the jet lag when you hurtled us through a portal to another continent.”

She meant the words to come off jokingly, but the words hung in the dead air like worn-out laundry. Plagg didn’t respond, although she could see his eyes glowing unblinkingly. She sighed and folded the curtain, sitting on it.

“Get some sleep, Plagg. I’ll wake you up when it’s your turn.”

He didn’t move. “We should…probably talk,” he muttered, sounding as if he regretted the words as they left his mouth.

“About what? New York real estate?”

“You know about what.”

She wrapped her arms around her legs, trying not to shiver. Her mind had been filled with nothing but questions earlier, but now that she had time for stillness, she just felt…empty. “It’s late, Plagg. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah, but - ”

“Just go to sleep.”

He sounded frustrated. “You’ve been looking for answers for so long, and now that you know I have some, you don’t want them?”

“Are we in immediate danger?”

“Not as far as I know, but - ”

“Are you going to tell me this is all a dream or something?”

“No.”

She felt very old. “Then no. I don’t want answers. Not tonight.”

 _Dead._ She’d had more than enough answers for tonight.

Plagg didn’t answer. The gleam of his eyes disappeared after a time, and she assumed he’d either closed them in sleep or left. She couldn’t bring herself to care which one – she knew he’d be back. He was a demon, after all, and this was her purgatory. Knowing the answer was a greater torment than knowing nothing at all.

She stared into the darkness and saw it for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, some fact checks first.  
> There are many, many Joe's Pizzas throughout New York City. As far as I can tell, none of them have 'New York' on the actual sign. It was a lazy creative liberty. Also, Chicago pizza can go suck it...New York all the way. (I'm not afraid to make bold writing choices that risk alienating my readers.)
> 
> Times Square Theater is an actual abandoned theater. There is almost zero chance she would have been able to sneak inside, especially via the Lyric Theater (Broadway fans can be rabid and security has to be tight). Again, it was a creative liberty. I'm obsessed with abandoned places - especially this one, which is smack in the middle of Manhattan, which doesn't make any SENSE because the reason the grumpy New Yorker stereotype exists is because they pay $5,000 rent for a Payless shoebox. Sorry, tangent. The theater is currently being renovated and the redesign makes me sad because it's ugly?? But costs like $100 million??? And it's still stuck in redevelopment h*ck. If you want to see photos, look up 'Untapped New York Times Square Theater'. It's so pretty and also taps into my deep yearning as a child to live in an abandoned theater, which may or may not have stemmed from reading The Thief Lord. (I love Cornelia Funke and I still haven't forgiven Hollywood for the Inkheart movie.)
> 
> All of which is a very long way of saying that I'm sorry this chapter is short and a little lazy - it's been a hard week. My husband's job is crazy, grad school is crazy, and life has gone a bit belly-up. But I'm so grateful for the refuge of writing, and so grateful to you all who comment and leave kudos. Particularly Azzy and Keyseeker, who are so engaging. Thank you all for reading.
> 
> Final note: I refused to put pineapple in her list of bad toppings. The rightful vs. despotic enthroning of pineapple in the toppings pantheon is the only actual argument my husband and I have ever had. We're keeping a running tally of our friends' votes for or against, so let me know which side you're on.


	7. Every Door We Ever Made

**“Through enjoyment we endure.” ― Florence Ditlow**

THREE YEARS AGO

Adrien groaned as he finally staggered into his own apartment only to see an angry red sentinel hovering in the middle of the room. Not the sight he wanted welcoming him home after a long night.

"Where have you been?" Tikki squeaked.

"But mom," he mumbled, tripping over his own feet as he slung his keys onto the table and began raiding the fridge. "It's not even curfew yet."

"You have _broken ribs!_ " 

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Please tell me you were at a clinic or something. Physical therapy."  
He winced as he lifted a can out of the fridge, making his side twinge. "In a way. Although I think the point of physical therapy is to make you feel better, not worse...and the mosh pit certainly didn't do that."

"I'm not sure what that is, and I'm not sure I want to."

"I swear we had more food when I left." Adrien frowned as he rummaged through the shelves. "Did you eat my Sno Balls?"

Tikki mimed gagging, and Adrien sighed melodramatically, taking himself and his beer to the table. "Guess the alcohol's going to keep digesting my liver instead."

She zipped over to him and stood on the table. Although the kwami didn't possess the requisite anatomy, he was getting serious 'hands-on-hips' vibes. "Just because you managed to pull together funds for rent doesn't give you a pass to go swim in strip clubs and gutters."

He took a swig. "You'd be amazed how often those two are the same place." He hadn't told her that David had given him the money. It might lead her to believe he'd made a friend, and she'd insist that he show up to the job, which he absolutely was not planning on doing. It wasn't like the guy could hunt him down - Adrien wasn't even sure David knew his real name, let alone his address. 

Tikki huffed. "You're twenty years old, Adrien. Not some teenager who's been locked in a basement. All this stuff should have worn off by now."

"Judge me all you want. Gutters will _never_ stop being exciting."

"You're avoiding the real issue here," she accused him. "If you would just talk about what happened, maybe..."

He gave her a warning look, and Tikki faltered slightly. "Adrien, you haven't even said her name in three years," she resumed, more softly this time. "I know you miss her. I miss her too."

"Stop it," he said quietly.

"Kwamis aren't supposed to have favorite Holders, but she...she was one of mine. So determined and positive and just _bright_. Like a little sun. Even her darkest nights never lasted long," Tikki whispered.

"Stop talking, Tikki."

"I know it hurts, Adrien, I can't imagine how you feel. But you have to remember the light too, not just the shadow. She wouldn't have wanted - "

"We'll never _know_ what she would have wanted, because _you_ killed her!" Adrien exploded.

Tikki's amethyst eyes went impossible wide, and a broken little gasp escaped her. There was silence for a moment. She swallowed. "Y-you're not wrong, Adrien. Let's talk - "

He stood abruptly, and she darted back in fear. He had never so much as touched her, but from the look in her eyes, he might have been holding a knife to her throat. He loathed the way she was looking at him, like he was a monster, like _he_ was the reason - 

He left the apartment without another word.

* * *

Adrien wandered the streets of New York for hours. He could roughly keep time by the kinds of people he saw. Between nine and eleven, women in flawless makeup and men that smelled like the entire Macy's cologne department were sweeping past or standing in lines that wrapped around the block. At two a.m., those same men and women were pouring their disheveled selves into cabs, makeup smeared, body odor rank. By Adrien's reckoning, it was now around three a.m. - he'd seen no fewer than four drug deals taking place, and just as many indecent exposures. New Yorkers as a general rule had few inhibitions, and the cover of night seemed to remove them all.

His head began to throb as he walked aimlessly, not sure where he was, not particularly caring. The apartment he'd struggled so hard to pay rent for was not an option to return to right now. He knew that the moment he opened the door, he and Tikki would be having the exact same conversation. 

He might be able to call Vasily, although the large Ukrainian man had barely been able to stand when Adrien had seen him off. He'd drunk what seemed like Adrien's body weight in vodka. In any case, Adrien wasn't even sure where the man lived; they'd never hung out outside bars and clubs. They were drinking buddies, not friends.

So, with all the doors of Bethlehem boarded up, he just kept walking. 

At some point during the endless night, a flickering sign caught his attention. It didn't stand out in any particular way; most places in New York had bright signs, and most of them were kept on through the night, but his tired eyes kept drifting back to it as he approached. It was in stately block lettering, all capital letters.

CHATEAU DOUGH

Something sparked in his memories. _That sounds a little cliché._

It had been three weeks ago now, but...He rummaged in his pockets, crumpling up receipts and random bits of paper, finally withdrawing a business card. He squinted at the title, then looked back up at the sign.

"No way," he muttered. It was like a bad movie plot. Of all the bakeries in all of Manhattan...Adrien didn't really believe in signs, but it seemed incredible that he'd ended up here by pure accident.

A tiny voice spoke in the back of his mind. _It's not like you have anywhere else to go._

As if in a dream, he walked forward.

* * *

Adrien groaned as bells announced the opening of the door with a cheerful tinkle. The sound felt like fairies beating him over the head with anvils.

He winced again as David’s disembodied voice rang through the empty bakery. “Adrien! I didn’t expect to see you for another week. How are the ribs?”

“Still inside me.”

“Well, if memory serves, that's an improvement.” David walked out from a storage room, untying an apron from around his waist and tossing it onto a chair. The bakery was mostly made up of the kitchen, with a small fifties-style soda fountain bar. A chalkboard menu hung above the counter and register, announcing the specials for that day. Given that it was still early – perhaps five in the morning – the bakery was empty.

Adrien shrugged. His every movement no longer made things crunch inside his body, but he still ran out of breath climbing the stairs to his apartment. 

“Well, I’m glad you're here.” David shook his hand. “Grab an apron, I’ll show you around the bakery.”

“Do I get paid for today?” It came out almost as a challenge. He was half-ready to walk out the door; perhaps coming in had just been a product of his lonely mind looking for meaning.

David eyed him. “We’ll call today a training day. I’ll pay you, but only if you wear the uniform.”  
Adrien blinked. “The what?”

David went behind the bar and produced a bright fuschia lump. Adrien peered at it. “A _beret_?”

David tossed it to him. “It’s thematic. Customers love it.”

“Making a French guy wear a beret is practically a hate crime.”

“Nonsense – they’re all the rage since the Dior show in 2017.”

Adrien eyed David’s rumpled clothing and unshaven face. “You’re into fashion?”

David grinned. “Nah. I just did my research when I was forming my ‘uniform’ argument to greet you with – I thought you’d fight that one. Consider this your hazing.” He clapped his hands and moved to one of two mint-green machines with an oscillating paddle. “Anyways, c’mon. I’ll show you behind the scenes.”

Adrien looked inside the deep silver bowl. The paddle was weaving through a thick plait of dough. From the smell of yeast, it was some sort of bread. “This is the stand mixer,” David told him. “The first thing I bought for Chateau Dough. Think of it as the beating heart of the kitchen. In the morning, they’re pretty much always going to be mixing something – bread, meringues, cake, frosting, scones. Anything that would make a personal trainer hiss and retreat back into the shadows.” He looked at Adrien critically. “We’re going to start you out on the chocolate chip cookies, I think. Even if you mess those up, the kitchen will probably survive.”

Adrien opened his mouth, but David had moved on before he could say anything.

“Back here,” David said as he walked into the back room, “are the ovens. Note the fire extinguisher on the wall. Don’t hesitate to use it. You can think of the ovens as the beating heart of the kitchen.”

“I thought you said the mixers were the heart.”

“Yes. Over here we have the air fryer, which is _also_ the heart of the kitchen...”

David continued to show Adrien around the small bakery, pointing out items large and small and dispensing odd bits of advice, until the bell on the door rang again. Adrien winced.

“First customer,” David announced. "Up and at 'em, kid." He headed for the counter, but paused, looking back.

“I’m going to need you to look alive,” he told Adrien. “Best hangover cure – dip some saltines in chocolate milk. We have both on that shelf I showed you.” He proceeded to greet the customer and take their order, leaving Adrien wondering if the cure would be worse than the disease.

Twenty minutes later, the jury was still out on that, but the disgusting taste in his mouth did seem to be distracting his head from its throbbing. His headache subsided enough that the sudden influx of morning rush customers ringing the bell didn’t feel like a pyrotechnics show inside his skull. He joined David at the counter. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Go take the muffins out, would you? And bring a blueberry one for Mrs. DeSantos here – she’s a regular.” David smiled warmly at the small, elderly woman who was beaming back at him.

So began Adrien’s first morning at Chateau Dough. It consisted of a lot of running around, putting things in and out of ovens, and whipping up last minute ingredients. David had taken care of most of the baked goods the night before and before Adrien’s arrival; he was beginning to understand that his boss had not exaggerated the difficulties of running a bakery. His feet hurt, his arms were tired, and his eyes were gritty with sleeplessness and the acrid smell of yeast.

Eventually, the flow of people slowed to a trickle as the time neared eight a.m. A few people hung around, sitting at the counter and gossiping over coffee. Adrien leaned against the counter, watching them. He was still in slight disbelief that he was here; he had never planned on seeing the cut man again, and he'd definitely never planned to smell like fresh-baked bread. The customers looked so content, discussing music he'd never heard of, films he didn't recognize.

David leaned against the counter. “So, kid, what do you think?”

“In general? I make a point of trying not to.”  
David chuckled. “Based on the fact that I met you at an underground street fight, I figured.”

“This place smells a lot better than my other jobs. Than my apartment, in fact.”

“Give it a week – you’re going to start to hate the smell of fresh blueberry muffins. Which reminds me, you’re welcome to take the day-olds home. They don’t sell well, and we usually just end up donating them anyways.”

Adrien wasn’t sure what to say. On the one hand, he resented David’s transparent charity; on the other, he was getting pretty sick of ramen and beer. Working in a cinnamon-soaked kitchen all morning hadn’t helped his cravings. _Plus_ , _imagine how excited Tikki would be to eat a real pastry_ , a little voice in the back of his head said. Not that he cared about her. Especially after last night. It must have been the bakery high talking.

“How’d you feel about the ovens? Getting things in and out? Because I’m thinking tomorrow I’ll start you on the ciabatta. It’s not that hard, you just toss the dough in some flour and call it good. We can work our way up to the hard stuff.” David slapped him on the shoulder. “I _knew_ you had the makings of a baker. I can sniff talent out a mile away.”

Adrien smiled uneasily. “I’m okay just doing grunt work.”

“Nonsense,” David told him. “That stuff’s important, sure, but you’ve got more in you than that. I can tell.”

“From how I nearly burned the croissants?”

“You got them out just in time – clearly, you have raw ability.”

Adrien looked him in the eye. He couldn’t tell if this was just another charitable move on his boss’s part or a genuine expression of confidence, and he didn’t care. To get better at something was to get invested in it. He had no intention of forming attachments, culinary, friendly, or otherwise.

“I thought you’d hired me as a dishwasher,” Adrien said quietly. “Or security, or something.”  
David laughed. “Kid, I saw you fight, remember? If some ten-year-old comes by and steals a cookie, you can rap their knuckles.

"I wasn't even planning on coming," Adrien admitted. He had no idea where the sudden burst of honesty came from, but his boss didn't bat an eye.

"Remember what I told you?”

“That Dior made berets cool again? I wasn’t listening.”

“I told you that the most important baking ingredients are spite and desperation. I saw both of those in action today. You _need_ this job, and not just for the money.”

Adrien frowned. “You said anger and desperation at the fight.”

David smirked. “So you were listening. Anyways, you can’t have anger without spite. The purpose of anger is to spite either your friends, yourself, or God.”

“So anger isn’t a valid emotion?” Adrien challenged. “What if a serial killer broke into my house and killed my entire family? Shouldn’t I be angry?”  
“Interesting that you’d jump to that.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”  
“And _you’re_ avoiding serving our next customer.” David nodded at the teenage girl standing at the register, who Adrien belatedly realized had been standing there for some time, following their discussion with wide eyes.

“Get to it,” David told him. “I’ll restock. And I wasn’t kidding about the hat.” He tossed the bright beret at Adrien, who cursed internally; he’d stuffed it behind the sacks of flour, hoping David had forgotten it. Begrudgingly, he fit the cap over his ragged, still-mousy brown hair. It still wasn’t the stupidest thing he’d ever worn – that honor was still held by father’s disco themed spring collection, which had been the rare exception to the usual critical adulation.

He walked over quickly to the register. As he took the teenager’s order of a single scone, he couldn’t help but notice that her cheeks pinked slightly. Either he’d suddenly gotten his model mojo back, or David was right and the customers loved berets. He looked away quickly from her blushing face, quelling the memories the sight threatened to awaken.

Although the stream of customers never hit the same level as the morning rush, things were busy enough that Adrien couldn’t resume his argument with David. He wasn’t sure what it would be over – his baking skills, the validity of anger, or berets – but the very idea of argument startled him. He hadn’t had any sort of conversation that had lasted more than a couple of minutes in years. Conversation meant investment. Investment meant attachment. Attachment meant happiness. Happiness meant pain.

And yet…unless he was very much mistaken – and he might be, given that it had been a while since he’d felt anything remotely similar – he was feeling something almost approaching contentment. He didn’t have time to sit and think, to mourn, to wallow. It felt good to _do_ something, to have people rely on him for something. Even if that something was handing them a scone.

The rest of the day flew by in a whirlwind of faces, smells, and orders that he forgot as soon as they were filled. The customers began to look the same despite their various ages and appearances. Yet David greeted many of them by name, telling Adrien that they were regulars, often handing them a free muffin in addition to the rest of their order. He wasn’t sure how David did it – remembered their names, details of their lives, their faces. How he cared – or pretended to, at least – for each person.

Finally, the time drew nearer to five o’clock. Through the bakery window, Adrien could see people starting to head home for the day. David put a “Closed” sign on the door, and together they began cleaning up. Ingredients for the next morning were scaled out, wood was set aflame in the small woodfire oven, dishes and floors were scrubbed. The work passed quickly, with David demonstrating essential tasks for Adrien, until at last everything was in order.

They removed their aprons, and David turned the lights off as they headed for the door. “So, you ready for another day of this?”

“If I can even move tomorrow morning. Those bain-maries get _heavy_ after a while.”  
“I’ll be here four a.m. sharp. Just come in between then and five, and I’ll show you how to do ciabatta.”

Adrien couldn’t believe it, but he found himself almost looking forward to that. 

“Oh, by the way…I never meant anger wasn’t valid,” David said casually as he locked the door behind them. “I only meant it hurts. Always.”

Adrien started to bite out a rebuttal, but his boss disappeared down the street. But it was fine, he decided. Their argument could wait until tomorrow morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was intended to be much longer, but given time and pacing constraints, I'm satisfied with it. 
> 
> Chapter title comes from "What Baking Can Do" from the Waitress musical. I saw it and it changed my life.
> 
> The bakery is based on a mishmash of Levain, Breads, and Laduree, all located in New York. While I've never been to Breads, I would sacrifice every molecule in my body for a taste of Levain right now, and I've never felt more like Audrey Hepburn than when I was munching on a Laduree macaron and judgmentally staring at everyone on 5th.
> 
> There will hopefully be lots more Adrien baking scenes! They were such a pleasure to write. I made meringues yesterday; baking really heals the soul, and if anyone in this story needs that, it's Adrien.
> 
> Also...wow?? THANK YOU to everyone who kudo'ed, commented, sent good vibes, etc. I loved all of it. Especial thanks to Mara_Jade101, Backyardbob01, rosepeaches, Keyseeker, and Azzy for supporting or at least enabling my pineapple pizza stance. Y'all are much appreciated.
> 
> Final note - if you guys have any soul-healing recipes (especially desserts) for Adrien to bake in future chapters, I'm always in the market for those! <3 all my love. See you all next chapter.


	8. Burning Ground

**“People do not lack strength, they lack will.” ― Victor Hugo**

TWO YEARS AND THREE HUNDRED SIXTY-FOUR DAYS AGO

Adrien woke up at four a.m. on November ninth, feeling like he’d forgotten something.

He had set his alarm; it had been the first time he’d ever used that app on his phone. But he was determined to be at Chateau Dough on time, if only to show David he was committed. He was surprised by his own motivation. Yesterday at this time, he hadn’t even been planning on taking the job, and now he was getting up at the buttcrack of dawn just to impress his boss.

Adrien had gone to bed at six last night. Between going clubbing with Vasily, arguing with Tikki, and working an entire day at the bakery, he’d been up for twenty-four hours straight. When he had gotten home last night, he had bypassed the fridge full of alcohol, set his alarm, and crawled right into bed. Last night was the best night’s sleep he’d gotten since arriving in New York two years ago. When he turned the light on, his head didn’t pound. He had forgotten how painless light could be.

Tikki was nowhere to be seen. When Adrien had come home last night, well before his usual bedtime of three a.m., she’d almost fallen out of the air in surprise. “Are the police after you?” she’d demanded to know. “Are you hiding out here or something? Are you sick?”

“No, no, and no,” he’d responded, pulling his covers over his head. “Just thought a lumpy pillow and holey blanket sounded more comfortable than clubbing with Vas tonight. To be fair, my pillow and blanket won’t try to hurl me through a wall if they get too drunk…” Sleep had hit him like a truck after that.

Now here he was, awake, brushing his teeth with water instead of Budweiser. He was a regular Norman Rockwell portrait of clean living. But he still had an odd feeling that he had forgotten something, the same feeling he’d had when he’d woken up and turned off his alarm. When he had seen the date on his lockscreen. November ninth…he shrugged, spitting into the sink. It was probably his father’s birthday or something, and he saw no reason to remember or celebrate that.

When he’d run a comb through his shaggy bedhead and tied on his only pair of shoes not splattered with cheap alcohol, Adrien sauntered over to Chateau Dough. The lights were already on, so he pushed open the door and headed for the back room. The bells on the door made a welcoming sound.

Adrien was unsurprised to see David already there; he wondered if the man lived here – showered in the sinks, slept on the sacks of flour. But David looked alert, fresh – dark, wavy hair combed back, plaid shirt unwrinkled. His sleeve was tied over his left arm. Adrien remembered belatedly that David was missing a hand; he’d barely noticed yesterday while David had been training him. The older man slung dough, slid trays from ovens, and mixed batter more efficiently than Gordon Ramsey on amphetamines.

“Morning, kid,” David greeted him. “How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

His boss began dumping flour into mixers, a smirk on his lined face. “You just saying that because you want to avoid another hangover cure?”

“Don’t know if I’d call it a cure,” Adrien retorted. “More a punishment, maybe.”

“Hey, I grew up Catholic – it’s more or less the same thing.” David turned the mixer on and wiped his hands on his apron. “Ready to learn the secrets of _bella Italia?_ ”

“I thought this was a French bakery.”

“Eh. Rome was the one that conquered Gaul, so it’s all the same. Plus, ciabatta’s one of our best sellers – the Wall Street guys love to waltz into work holding anything but a bagel. Like them, ciabatta is simultaneously pedestrian and condescending. It seems fancy and refined, but it’s stupidly simple. You ready to get started?”

Adrien stayed put. “Do I have to wear the beret again?”

David just laughed, ushering him to the ovens.

It turned out that while ciabatta was easy to make, it was surprisingly sticky. Adrien’s hands were nearly cemented to the dough station; dough was stuck between his fingers, on his arms, and even in his hair. David looked over his shoulder to give him occasional pointers, but for the most part, Adrien was stuck following a laminated recipe. But he hardly minded. It surprised him how much he liked being left to his own devices. He’d thought the responsibility of baking bread to sell to actual customers would be intimidating, but instead it was almost…invigorating.

“Okay, throw that thing in the oven,” David instructed him after the dough had been bundled onto a pan. “It looks about ready.”

“Good enough to eat?”

“Good enough to use as a doorstop if not. When you’re done with that, get over here and help me frost the macarons. Should be easy – you have delicate hands.”

Adrien grunted, inspecting David’s single hand. Like Adrien, David had long, tapered fingers, but his bore the marks of years of use. They were adorned with old cuts and burns; veins stood out like small blue mountain ranges. Adrien glanced at his own thin pianist’s hands. Despite nearly two years of hard living in New York, they were still uncallused and smooth. They were his mother’s hands, the only reminder of her he had brought with him when he’d fled France.

He joined David near the neat lines of macaron shells on the counter. They were a cheerful, raspberry red, shiny and crisped; David was currently sealing the halves together with some sort of cream.

“These are raspberry and strawberry flavored,” David told him. “We’re using vanilla filling. I want you to mix the frosting for the decoration we’re doing on top. The ingredients are over there – just follow the recipe card.”

Adrien did as he instructed. Soon the black frosting was ready to go. Per David’s instructions, he loaded it into a frosting bag with a small tip.

“Okay, I’ll show you how I want it.” David began demonstrating on wax paper, which was marked with sixteen uniform circles the size and shape of the macarons. “It’s got to be pretty precise. We’re doing one big circle in the middle – like this – and four circles along the edge. Try to make them as equally sized as possible. Practice on the wax paper until you’ve gotten sixteen perfect in a row, and then we’ll move you to the actual macarons.”  
They worked together in companionable silence, David sealing together the macarons, Adrien trying to force the dark frosting out into perfectly round globs. He had to wipe down the wax paper and start over more than a few times, but eventually he began to figure out how to squeeze the frosting bag just right so that it came out evenly.

“Looks good, kid. Okay – do one side each and make sure let them dry before you stack them in this tray. We’ve only got an hour till opening, and this is going to be a popular menu item.”

Adrien bent his head to the macarons while David disappeared to work on his countless other projects. To his surprise, his first macaron came out perfectly frosted. The full, dark circles were perfectly round and equally spaced, complementing the shiny shell of the cookie. He held the macaron up to the light to inspect it more critically.

He froze, mind going completely blank.

November ninth.

He had been so focused on the minute details of the cookie – making sure his hand wasn’t wobbling, forming the circles – that he had failed to see the full picture.

It was November ninth. Not shocking that he’d forgotten the significance of today, considering he’d spent every other anniversary trying to do just that.

A shiny red sphere, dotted with black, bright against his pale, now trembling hand…

_“My lady,” he said, dramatically deepening his voice and bowing, “I believe this is yours.” He cupped her yo-yo in his hand, flourishing with the other._

_“Finders keepers.”_

_He looked up and found her grinning. A long silver something was protruding from her hands. Like an idiot, he felt at his side; his bo staff was missing. “Hey! How’d you get ahold of that?”_

_“You put it down when you were stealing my yo-yo,” she said, grinning deviously. “You really should take better care of your things. You’re always losing stuff.”_

_He walked slowly closer to her. “There’s only one thing I really care about losing, my lady.”_

_Her cheeks dusted with faint pink as he drew even closer, so close their noses were nearly touching. Her voice squeaked. “That’s_ so _cheesy, Chat N - ”_

_“Losing the race to your dad’s bakery!” he yelled, swiftly snatching back his staff while she was distracted. She yelped in surprise as he dashed off, holding both her yo-yo and his staff. He vaulted away, cackling maniacally, as she shouted after him. When he glanced back, she was chasing him on foot, yelling after him, trying run and look angry and keep from laughing all at once. Pink still flamed her face; she was so beautiful in the dying afternoon light that he almost ran into a traffic light. He reversed direction, hurling himself towards her. He laughed again to himself, glancing down at the yo-yo clutched in his palm. He had almost reached her…_

“You okay, kid?”

David’s voice wrenched Adrien out of the flashback. He found himself gripping the edge of the baking station with one hand. In his other, the last crumbles of the crushed macaron fell between his fingers.

“Fine,” he forced out. “I need to go to the bathroom.” He shouldered past David, who was expressionless, grabbed the bathroom key, and hightailed it out of the shop.

His mind was blank as he gripped the dirty sink tightly, staring at himself in the mirror. His eyes were wide, pupils nearly swallowed in green, green nearly absorbed by bloodshot white. They were shadowed by the jagged edge of dishwater brown hair hanging over them. His jawline was unshaven and patchy; he’d never been able to grow a proper beard, although he’d gone several months without a razor back when everything had happened. The veins were standing out in his forehead and neck.

The details of what he was seeing in the mirror gradually grounded him, helped the disorientation, the _wrenching_ inside, fade away. He was real, he was in New York, he looked like a mess…but he was here. Alone.

She had left him by himself again.

“Get ahold of yourself,” Adrien ground out at his reflection. What had he been expecting? Of course the bakery was going to celebrate her. The entire world was. There would probably be memorial services, news reports, even parades – everything a fallen hero deserved. Maybe there were traditions by now; he had no idea. He usually stayed home on this day, getting so plastered he barely remembered his own name, let alone the date.

Adrien wondered briefly if he could just claim sudden illness, tell David he was going home because of some kind of…bug. (He snorted at the irony – it wouldn’t even be a total lie.) The more he considered that option, the more relief flooded through his body like a shot of Novocaine. It would be so easy to just leave, fill a grocery cart full of alcohol on his way home, and give in. He wouldn’t have to think. He wouldn’t have to care. He wouldn’t have to _remember._

But the longer he considered that option – and the empty relief it yielded – the less he could deny that tiny spark he’d felt yesterday.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained in the bathroom, staring at himself, but a loud knock on the door rattled him from his reflections. “Kid, you in there?” It was David, voice muffled through the bathroom door.

“Yeah,” Adrien rasped. “Be out in a minute.”

“Did you take the banana muffins home last night? ‘Cause I forgot to tell you not to eat those after six…lots of fiber in those babies, and when they’re old, it’s not pretty.”

Adrien felt an odd, hysterical urge to laugh. “I’m fine. Almost done.”

“Okay – we’re opening in five.” Adrien heard him walking away.

For a few more seconds, he grappled with himself, simultaneously trying to hold that little spark in his mind while also banishing it from memory. On the one hand, going home and drowning would be so easy…But maybe, just for today, doing the hard thing was the right thing.

He forced his feet in the direction of Chateau Dough before he could think about it too much.

He was greeted by the smell of burning bread and David in a blackened apron.

“The ciabatta!” Adrien remembered dismally. He ran to the oven and cracked it open.

“Check the trash,” David told him. “Or don’t. It looks like a demon used it to vomit brimstone.”

David was at the baking station, frosting the last of the macarons. Adrien steeled himself against the sight of the rows of spotted shells. He’d have to get over it. At least for today.

“Feeling better?” David asked.

“Not really. But I’ll live,” Adrien said. He winced as he glanced into the trash, which held the blackened corpse of his first baking attempt. “Unlike the bread – I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’re not the first newbie I’ve hired. I had understudies waiting in the wings,” David smirked. “Those Wall Street boys aren’t going to starve after all.”

Adrien peeked at the display case in front. Indeed, it was stocked with ciabatta rolls – most already stuffed with breakfast sandwich ingredients. He had no idea how David had had the time to pull it together. “What do you even need me for? You’ve got it all handled without me.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” David chided. “You have the X factor. By which, of course, I mean that faint French accent that makes us seem legit. And don’t forget about those piercing green eyes you try so hard to hide. You’re my key to capturing the eighteen to eighty-year-old female pastry connoisseur demographic. Which is the most valuable demographic of all. Did you notice how long Emily hung around for after you took her order?” Adrien couldn’t remember the customers’ faces, let alone their names. “She’ll be in again today – I’d bet you this bakery. Now get your skinny French butt to the register, we’ve got company.”

By noon, they were sold out of the spotted macarons; some influencer had posted a picture and the Instagram hordes had descended. While many latecomers walked away disappointed, Adrien was grateful not to have to avert his eyes from the display case. He didn’t want to risk another flashback in the middle of a busy bakery. There had been a close call when a couple entered the shop dressed in sharp reds, greens, and blacks, and he’d fled to the back room until David had finished taking their order. But aside from that, it was a rather boring day. Adrien was relieved.

He was somewhat surprised to hear that Chateau Dough had no sort of social media presence whatsoever; his father’s company had had an entire team dedicated to building the Agreste Corporation’s various profiles. He asked David about it during the afternoon lull.

“I’m no good with technology,” the cut man shrugged. “Can’t take a picture without my thumb making a guest appearance. I was thinking of hiring someone to handle it, but all these advertising agencies charge more than this place is worth.” He nodded around at the bakery. For the first time, Adrien wondered how old David was. He moved with the unconscious grace of a young man, but his lined face and inexperience with media suggested otherwise. Adrien decided to drop the subject – his salary probably wouldn’t change with the number of Instagram followers, anyways.

Before long, it was time to head home. Adrien found himself just as exhausted as yesterday – his feet hurt, his arms ached, and his spine wanted to prison break from his back. But that tiny little spark had sputtered back to life, somewhere in between handing Mrs. DeSantos her order and restocking the muffins. In defiance of his body’s insistence he go lie in a dark room, he wanted to stay under the bakery lights and just sit quietly, a mug of hot chocolate in hand.

But David ushered him out again, shutting off the lights. This time they walked the same way. Adrien wondered if his boss lived nearby; his arms were full of packages.

“So, thoughts on the macarons?” David asked. Adrien’s steps faltered a moment.

“They…seemed pretty popular,” he said neutrally.

“Yeah. First year I’ve tried them. I figured – French bakery, French hero, it’s a no-brainer. Next year I might try switching out the filling, though.”  
“Next year?”

“Yeah, Nuffnov is kind of an annual thing,” David said, giving him a sideways glance.

“Nuff-nov?” Adrien tried to copy the odd pronunciation.

David laughed. “Yeah, kid – you should know this, you’re French. _Neuf no-vahm-bruh.”_ He exaggerated the syllables.

“November ninth.” Adrien wasn’t sure what he was worried about. The odds of him still working at Chateau Dough a year later were basically nothing; he held down jobs about as well as kids held down vomit at a county fair. He’d probably never lay eyes on those stupid cookies again.

“Hey, did you live in Paris? Did you ever meet them?”

“Meet who?” Adrien asked, knowing full well.

“Chat Noir and - ”

“No,” Adrien cut David off. “I never met them. I…lived in Lyon, to the south.”

“They came to New York once,” David reminisced. “I didn’t see, but I’ve seen video. They looked so young, you know? Just kids. Can’t imagine what that must have been like. Shame what happened. I wonder where he ended up - ”

“Uh, this is mine,” Adrien interrupted, motioning at a random apartment building. He couldn’t endure this conversation any longer; he felt as if he was about to burst out of his skin.

“Oh before I forget – here you go, kid. Good work today. Enjoy the fruits of your labors.” David fumbled around with the packages in his arms, finally tossing one at Adrien. “See you bright and early tomorrow. Me and your fan base will be waiting anxiously. You saw Emily, right?” With a chuckle, the other man disappeared into the city.

Adrien waited a moment before turning down an alley. David was walking in the direction of Adrien’s actual apartment, but Adrien wasn’t about to let his boss know he’d lied just to get out of a conversation. It took a few wrong turns, but eventually he was unlocking the door to his apartment with tired, eager fingers.

Tikki was, predictably, waiting for him. Her expression was cautiously hopeful. “You’re home early again,” she noted.

“You’re…home,” he replied. “Must suck being a different species. Nowhere to go, and no opposable thumbs.” Dumping the package on the table, he wiggled his at her. Her eyes widened at his tone, which while not exactly light, was not as dark as usual. But, despite David’s chatter on the way home, the spark was still burning inside him, small and steady. For the first time, he’d told himself no. He’d taken the harder road. It felt good.

Tikki stared at him until he opened David’s package. Assorted muffins and buns spilled out over the table. She gasped, fluttering down to examine them. “For you,” he offered, hoping she could hear the reconciliation in his tone. They hadn’t had a real conversation since he’d left yesterday morning after yelling at her. He was sober enough now to regret that.

She seemed to understand, meeting his gaze for a moment before diving into the pile. “No ramen!” she trilled. “And none of these are just creatively-designed beer cans, right?”

“Not as far as I know.” Adrien selected a thick roll and began stuffing it into his mouth as he stretched, heading towards the bathroom. He felt good, ready for another long night of nothing but sleep. He might even squeeze in a shower…

Behind him, Tikki gave an odd, wounded yelp.

He spun back towards her, only to find her staring at a cookie that had been buried in the pile of food. A red cookie, dotted with black. Without another word, he grabbed it from the table, crushing the macaron to bits. For the second time, he let the pieces fall.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled. Tikki’s large purple eyes were glassy, whether from tears or memories he was unsure. “Didn’t know that was in there.”

The spark had gone dark, as if he’d blown out a candle. For the first time, he registered how cold the apartment was.

“I miss her, Adrien,” Tikki whispered. “Do you know what today is?”

He’d give anything to forget.

He left her sitting alone in the kitchen and retreated to the bathroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! I'm back, both in a literary sense and in my right mind. 
> 
> I've been playing catch-up this week, since all the work we couldn't do last week (thanks, polar vortex) got dumped onto this week. One of my professors lost her home to the freeze and another got kidney stones, which is just...cruel timing for them. I feel awful for everyone affected.
> 
> This is not the chapter I meant to write. This week was actually supposed to be a Marinette chapter. But this one spoke to me instead! It's rough around the edges (because again, polar vortex) but I'm proud of myself for pushing through and posting. Also, I deleted the last chapter - there was nothing of consequence in it, and it really was just a placeholder. No, Marinette does not remember her name yet.
> 
> I chose November ninth because I liked the alliteration and because winter seemed appropriate. I looked up holidays for this date and discovered, by complete coincidence, that November ninth is World Freedom Day and also Chaos Never Dies Day. I'm sure they were thinking of my fanfiction when they invented those. It's also National Fried Chicken Sandwich Day, which is unrelated but beautiful all the same.
> 
> Chapter title comes from Burning Ground, by Brandon Jenner.


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